


Seven Acts of Mercy

by Geishacomb



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Tim Drake, Bruce Wayne was not a good Dad this time, Damian has had it officially, Featuring Ric 'Existential Amnesiac Crisis' Grayson, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Jason is the smartest don't @ me, NOT a Bruce hate-a-thon, Tom King's Trash Batdad, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-26
Updated: 2019-06-26
Packaged: 2020-03-19 21:03:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 32,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18978298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Geishacomb/pseuds/Geishacomb
Summary: This stranger wasn’t his Father. It lived in his skin, stalked the same hallways and rooftops as ever. Wore his face. But it wasn’t the man he knew, or thought he did. Not anymore.Damian fumbled for his phone, and stabbed out five words that would change everything: 'Come and get me. Please.'OR: Bruce punched Tim in the face. Here’s my hot take on the possible consequences. Post Batman issue #71.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: references to physical child abuse courtesy of Tom King. First foray into writing the Batfam, so be kind.

The car smelled weird. 

Funky, Grayson would say. The car smelled FUNKY. 

Not in that clinical, upholstered leather and kevlar way, as the Batmobile did. Not with the tang of lingering sugar, from some forlorn dropped kernels of cereal, as in Grayson’s sorry excuse for a perambulator. Not even in that sour-milk-and-sweat, slightly undead stink that had assaulted Damian’s nostrils, the ONE time he’d set foot in Todd’s vehicle. 

Drake’s eyes were fixed firmly on the road ahead, his movements just a little too controlled. His long, pale fingers neither lingered too long nor squeezed too tight on the steering wheel. They flitted quickly and easily to the gearstick, and back, like a wandering insect. 

The car smelled like Drake. THAT was why it smelled...funky. 

Drake was not perfumed. Never was, as far as Damian knew. But he definitely had a smell, nonetheless. Something like fresh laundry and the acrid burn of shit coffee squeezing down your throat, too hot. Something like hotel soap and the salt in microwavable meals. 

It wasn’t exactly unpleasant. It just wasn’t - well known, to him. Much like the man who sat across from him, feigning ease, at the wheel. 

“...we’ll figure this out, Damian.” Drake says, with awkward conviction, out of nowhere. 

The younger boy sniffs in disdain, squirms deeper into the cocoon of his hoodie as though it offered some form of meagre protection. Glances out at the glaciers of grey stone streaming past his pointed nose. 

“Are you asking me, or telling me?” he bites out, but it emerges with a lot less derision than he meant it to. It emerges more like what it was: a child’s question. 

Drake takes one of his brief skip-breaths: a sharp inhale-exhale that is half sigh, half bracing himself “Telling.”

A muscle in the pale man’s jaw twitched, and the fading, bloody cacophony of black and blue and yellow and purple on his lower left cheek crinkles. It looks painful. 

It’s just a bruise, Damian thinks, momentarily transfixed. Just a meagre collection of ruptured arteries, spider-thin. 

And yet; he hesitates, and just...doesn’t know what. 

“Then sound more convinced.” he settles on, lamely. Kicks at the loose plastic of one of Drake’s discarded laptop computers beneath his feet, adorned with fading stickers. Draws his hood up over his wilting hair and shoves the giving plastic of his earphones deep into his ears.

He squeezes his eyes shut; tries not to think about how they’re going, going, going. 

Doesn’t let himself wonder whether they’ll be coming back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I’ve been a Batfam fan for some time and I’m very aware that, due to the multitude of different interpretations of these characters, there’s no true religious ‘canon.’ 
> 
> I’m also aware of the various shades of shitty characterisation and poor choices DC has meted out on the ragtag crew over the years. 
> 
> But this one SERIOUSLY disturbed me, you guys. This one cut too close. It cut more than too close. It crossed the line. It danced, naked, doused in petroleum oil, over the line. 
> 
> I’m referring, of course, to Tom King’s monumentally crass decision to have Bruce Wayne, full grown man, punch Tim Drake, not-of-age teenager and adopted son, in the face. 
> 
> So I want to be clear, I’m a big fan of Good Dad Bruce Wayne. My own personal Bruce, in my mind, is likely a mix of the animated versions. And I don’t for one second believe that My Bruce would punch a minor in the face, let alone his own son.
> 
> I believe he’s capable of a LOT of shitty behaviour, but not that.
> 
> I don't think Tom King deserves to just throw this twist out and then gloss over it with no consequences. Batman Doesn't Punch Children In The Face. However, DC threw this grenade into my carefully cultivated canon allotment, and I’m morbidly interested to see how it bears it’s twisted fruit. 
> 
> So, consider this Bruce an AU version of my personal canon Bruce.


	2. Visit the Imprisoned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Damian tries to understand, and fails miserably. 
> 
> In terms of warnings, while I'll be addressing the impact of physical abuse, it'll be neither explicit nor gory. This is more of an exploration of the complexity of the issue. 
> 
> However, I’d advise anyone who may find this content triggering to consider giving it a miss. Stay safe, my loves.

~Some days earlier…~

A thought struck him. 

Funny how a thought can strike harder than a fist. A thought can strike and snag and fester, infect you to your bones. 

A physical blow had a physical impact: it was simple physics. Damian had several PHds in physics, naturally, but a kindergartner could comprehend Newton’s third law: For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction.

The thought was: I no longer feel safe, here. 

It was an intangible feeling. A strange, insipid feeling that creeps. One Damian had long been familiar with. Safety was something of a latecomer to his short, firecracker existence. His Mother had made a teacher out of un-safety. Although now that he thought about it, she herself had never actually struck him. Not open-palmed, not skin-to-skin. She had been an overseer only. 

His first encounter with safety had been Grayson. Of course. 

Damian remembered the exact moment. A monotonous, uneventful snapshot in time. It was a long dawn after patrol and his ankle was swollen, encased in ice and propped up on one of Pennyworth’s God-awful chintz pillows. The rough grind of tapestry threads against the skin of his bony foot chafed, and Damian was grumbling. 

Grayson, freshly showered and sipping one of his disgustingly floral hot teas, curled an easy arm around his shoulders. The grooves around his bright eyes crinkled “Relax, lil D. It’s a beautiful morning.”

Damian had blinked, looked at the swelling sun falling across the wooden panel flooring like slabs of butter, and thought: oh. 

And he had relaxed. It’d felt like every wire holding his small, prone body up had snapped, and he caved in upon himself. Damian had pushed the pulsating crown of his skull against Grayson’s thigh and exhaled. Let the sweet buzz of nothing fill his aching head. 

But Grayson was gone. Again. Not in body this time, but in mind. This time not by choice, but that BARELY mattered. 

Damian snarled and vehemently threw the china cup in his hand clear across the living room, startling Alfred the Cat, who yowled and glared reproachfully at him. 

He startled to his feet, scattering the myriad of pen and pencil art supplies which clattered across the same wood panel flooring that lived in the memory that Safe Morning. They settled in cowardly retreat beneath chairs and chaise, cowering. Damian felt too full, he felt too empty. He felt paralysed, he couldn’t - he couldn’t make this make SENSE. 

His Father hadn’t changed; Damian knew this. 

He hadn’t metamorphosed suddenly into a new creature. Hell, metamorphosis was part of the daily grind, around here. Donning cape and cowl and all manner of circus paraphernalia like armour, and fleeing into the cloying night. And yes, of course, Father in and out of costume was an intimidating figure. But also one of intrigue. Fascination, for Damian. 

Worship, even. 

And even as time had passed and their intimacies found new ways to fit, awkwardly and Frankenstein-like, together, Damian still idolised the man. Not in that initial blind, crass way. His Father wasn’t fool’s gold, he was a treasure. A human man. Very, very flawed, but then, didn’t the most precious of stones have imperfections that ran deepest? 

Damian had seen him laugh and cry. Hit and be hit. Fall, and get back up. He loved him. 

But since the abortive mess of the wedding...or rather, not-wedding...

There was a stranger in his Father’s skin, disenfranchised from his own chassis. Even the cowl seemed ill-fitting, like a shroud settled on a living man. He had retreated into himself in a way that was beyond his usual, brooding sulks. Pennyworth had assured him it was not unheard of, that his Father would, as he always did, struggle free of it’s grip. Given time. 

Damian had kept close to his side, kept patient vigil, and waited. And then his Father had punched Drake in the face. 

Drake was the greatest enigma to Damian in their little enclave. He just - couldn’t ever quite get a read on the man. Boy. Teenager? He knew, objectively speaking, that Tim Drake had turned seventeen as of the 19th July. It was now late August. 

But what did age matter, in their world? That ridiculous parody Billy Batson was an infant that could turn into an overgrown beefcake. And Damian himself was HARDLY what you could call a child. 

But he was. And Drake was. Technically, still, children. 

It had been the look on his Father’s face. The utter conviction with which he had pulled back his fist, and knocked Drake clear off his feet. Damian could still FEEL the crumble of flesh and bones slamming into the hard floor, the shudder. It was the same expression he always wore when striking his enemy: the gangsters, the thieves, the rapists and the murderers. But Drake - Drake was not his Father’s enemy, he was his SON. 

His Father had looked wild. Pained, rageful. Out of control. 

It had been three days. None of them had really spoken to one another: not Father, not Todd, certainly not Drake. Damian had heard Pennyworth murmuring feverishly to his Father, when he thought Damian was out of earshot. Reprimanding, pleading. From what he could tell, the man was getting little response. 

Damian, in an unprecedented act of - something, had missed patrol. 

He hadn’t bothered to fabricate an excuse. He simply hadn’t crossed the threshold between mansion and cave. He wasn’t AVOIDING his Father, or so he told himself. Not that it was difficult to avoid the man, anyway, who was out marauding every second of the night, and passing out like a mountain of boneless flesh in the master bed every day. 

Pennyworth (man, not cat) seemed to understand. 

Seemed to sense the wounds lingering beneath Damian’s skin, and provide the best interim cures he had. 

“You really must eat something, master Damian.” he said, with gentle candidness, from the now open doorway.

The youngest Wayne blinked, glanced outside. Dusk already. His stomach growled plaintively, the traitor. 

“Not hungry.” Damian bit out, folding his arms across his stomach. Then, realising how childishly that had come out, he amended “Thank you, Pennyworth. But I am not hungry.”

The butler raised a patented disbelieving eyebrow and gestured through the doorway “Can I perhaps tempt the young master with ice-cream?”

Damian’s eye twitched. Bribery, pure and blatant. The man had no shame! None! “Don’t patronise me, Pennyworth.” 

A whiplash memory came to him. The stark contrast of strawberry upon vanilla upon chocolate. The give of soft-scoop neopolitan ice cream in a worn bowl. The squeak of worn shoes on a 50's diner floor. Faded red leather that stank of homeliness, and the flash of Grayson’s teeth as he laughed. The fiend always added mint chocolate chip, too, which was CLEARLY an aberration. Damian had told him so. 

His chest ached. His throat burned. Perhaps… “...fine. I guess that would be acceptable.”

They ate in the kitchen, as per their custom. 

Hell, even Damian’s birthday cake had been carefully laid, not on the resplendent sheen of the dining room table, but here. On this nondescript kitchen counter. The boy wouldn’t have minded, if only Father had bothered to turn up. But then again, that seemed - a juvenile fantasy. The sort of dream spun by the liars Mother had warned him against. 

He blinked in surprise when the butler produced two bowls, and joined him. Perhaps Pennyworth also sought the saccharine comfort confection brought. 

Damian ate too fast, and the cold dug deep into his jaw. Spiralled up into his head, numbed it. He didn’t mind. The stark clink-clank of metal on china sounded like the rattling of bars on a prison cell. 

“This too will pass, master Damian.” Pennyworth offered, gently, into the hollow quiet “I know everything feels - terribly bleak, at the moment. But we have rode out worse storms.”

The butler looked old, Damian thought. Well, Pennyworth must have been BORN ancient, but. For the first time the lines in his face seemed crevasse-like. Weariness haunted his eyes like a disease. 

“That was originally a Persian adage. Did you know?” the boy replied, side-stepping the conversation with learned expertise “From Sufi poets: īn nīz bogzarad. This too shall pass.”

Pennyworth sighed, sensing the deflection, and his lips twitched upwards “I didn’t know that, no. How interesting.”

That was a lie. The butler knew next to everything: this was one of the few certainties Damian had left. 

Ordinarily, the butler would’ve used this topic to segue into the subject of school. But Damian hadn’t attended in weeks. Ever since Jon had dropped like a stone off the face of reality, and returned a grown teenager with next to no resemblance to DAMIAN’S Jon. Nobody had bothered to try to force him; they knew full well the Kent boy had been the only reason Damian had acquiesced to go in the first place. 

His world was shrinking, the youngest Wayne knew. No, not shrinking. It was just growing emptier. Grayson, Jon. Father. 

“I shall try to persuade master Bruce to join us for dinner this evening.” Pennyworth placated, testing the waters. 

The chair legs screeched as Damian abruptly shoved back from the counter top “Don’t bother. I’m sure he’s out there somewhere, enjoying mourning his whore.”

Even as he said it, it felt heavy and sour in his mouth. Poisonous. 

“Master Damian!” the butler scolded, aghast “That is no way to talk.”

It lacked sting. Pennyworth knew he was hurt. They were walking wounds, the Wayne's “I thought you liked Miss Kyle.” 

Damian half startled as the warm heave of Titus’ flank pressed against his knees, the dog whining in question. The boy dug his fingers into the coarse fur beneath the brute’s collar, steadying himself. Licked his lips “I did.” 

Then, with awkward surrender “I do.” 

He didn’t hate the Kyle woman. He couldn’t even dislike her. She was kind. Stubborn. She spoke nothing but sense, and she never, NEVER treated him like a child. Kitten gloves are for kittens, she’d said. And winked. 

She was gone now, too. 

“Master Damian-”

“Why are we not enough?!” the boy burst out, suddenly, slamming balled fists down onto the counter with twin THUNKS “Why am I-”

Father was acting like a man with nothing left to lose. Like an animal in deep torment, like he could never, ever HEAL. Like a man robbed of his future. 

But then what the HELL were they - his sons - supposed to be?! 

The boy slumped to the immaculate floor, arms curling tightly around Titus’ thick neck, the cords of muscle beneath his cut-to-the-quick fingernails squeezing. The dog searched for some unseen threat, ears flicking: found none. 

“Explain to me how I am supposed to reconcile this, Pennyworth.” Damian muttered into shining fur “Please.”

He heard the shush of crinkling linen as the butler knelt down beside him, placed a brittle but strong hand on the sharp jut of his shoulder blade “Master Bruce is-” he hesitated “Always was. A complicated man.”

But he hit Tim, Damian wanted to say. He hit Tim and he LOVES Tim, or is supposed to. This wasn’t a fight, it wasn’t even an ARGUMENT, it - it was an attack. 

There was nothing complicated about that. 

“He’s a hypocrite.” the boy snapped, red face rising “Violence only when necessary. When ABSOLUTELY necessary. He taught me that. He unmade me with it!” 

It wasn’t FAIR! It didn’t make sense, nothing made sense anymore “He’s no better than my Mother.” 

He couldn’t unlearn everything he thought was true, not again. If his world turned upside down again everything would fall out of it. Perhaps it already HAD. Perhaps that’s what this WAS. 

“Your Father, alas, is not a perfect man.” Pennyworth was saying from somewhere far above him, his voice wrung with regret “He makes mistakes. He makes a great many mistakes.”

The boy’s gaze slid sideways, face scrunching with rage and disappointment “Batman is supposed to be better than that.”

Pennyworth slid his hands beneath Damian’s armpits and lifted him to his feet, brushing invisible lint from his sweater “Alas, if Master Dick were here-”

“But he isn’t.” Damian retorted, sharply, gut churning.

The butler tried again “Master Bruce...always did somewhat rely on Master Dick, as an anchor. A conscience, if you will.”

What was it Todd had said…? None of us will ever live up to the Golden Boy, brat. That guy is Bruce’s Funshine Care Bear. Ain’t worth pretending no different. 

Damian still had absolutely no clue what this ‘Funshine’ was (it sounded abhorrent), but he took the point. 

“So, as Robin - I’ve failed.” he clarified, fixing the butler with a piercing stare “To keep him in check. Is that all Robin is, Pennyworth?” 

A walking traffic cone, green, yellow, red? A yank on the back of the cowl screaming, RED ALERT? 

“That’s not what I-”

“He’s weak.” Damian cut him off, felt the realisation sink its teeth in deep “They all are.”

That night, through the reassuring press of his headphones, Damian hears a gargantuan row going on downstairs. Raised voices. The slam of metal on wood. He scrubs his fists against his burning eyes, exhales. The accusatory glare of his digital clock (a toy one, some joke of a contraption gifted to him by Todd - paraphernalia from a cartoon about Ninja turtles obsessed with junk food, or some such rot) sang 2AM. 

Early. Something must have happened on patrol. The boy swallows the squeeze of worry around his heart, and waits. Plucks the buds from his ears. 

“You will LOSE them, master Bruce. You’re already losing them! Please…”

A low growl answers the plea “You know nothing about what I’ve lost, Alfred.”

At the foot of his bed, Titus lifts his crane of a head, and bares his teeth in an answering rumble. Damian blinks. 

“You have not lost that BOY upstairs, master Bruce, your SON.” Pennyworth sounds wretched, the boy thinks “Your son who is confused and angry and needs his Father.”

Silence, then. 

Damian doesn’t hear his Father approach his door. But he does catch the sigh as it swings slowly open, clocks the ripple of tension in Titus’ back as the loom of the man crosses the threshold. He doesn’t shift; doesn’t alter his breathing. Father knows he is feigning sleep, and Damian knows that he knows. 

The die is cast. 

The bed dips as his Father’s knuckles press into the left hand side, the familiar wash of cologne and kevlar stinging the boy’s nose “...Damian.” 

The boy is caught.

He wants to turn over: look into his Father’s eyes, find resolution there. But he can’t. He can’t because he’s afraid of who, or what, he’ll see. Of whether the metamorphoses is complete and entire and permanent. Of whether he can ever see the man the same way again. 

And so he does nothing. The stranger and his Father’s ghost exhales, draws the covers over Damian’s shoulder. Silently retreats with the soft click of a mechanism turning in a lock. 

Without meaning to, it’s Drake who gives Damian the answer to what to do next. 

Damian knew his campaign of inaction had to end eventually, but how, he had no idea. He didn’t even know if it was a true protest or simply a childish resolve to ignore - everything. The tectonic plates beneath his plates had shifted irrevocably, not for the first time in his life, but for once, there was nobody to propel him forward, one way or the other. 

Not his Mother uprooting him from his home and leaving him with Father. Not Grayson snatching the cowl of Robin from Drake and getting the necessary papers in order. 

He couldn’t go BACK. There was nowhere to go back to. But he couldn’t stay here, either, in this hollow hall with the spectre of a man he thought he knew. 

‘We don’t understand one another.’ Father had said. Damian snorted. No SHIT, as Todd would say. And now he was referencing the Red Hood in his head: how the mighty had fallen. 

‘Don’t give up on me, Father.’ But that went both ways. He didn’t want to give UP on the man. He just...couldn’t live with him, right now. 

“-excited to see where this collaboration takes us next.”

Damian nearly jolts clean from his deskchair as Drake’s tinny voice cuts through his thoughts. His tablet - damn, he’d clean forgotten it. Sat mindlessly trolling out various top news stories from across the internet. Idle chatter. Until now. 

He scrambles for the chunk of metal and plastic, dropping it to the floor with a clatter. Damian swore, dived for it again, balanced the lower edge on the crook of his kneecaps. 

It was an interview. On some sub-par technology/business channel, Damian surmised. He vaguely remembered that Drake had an appointment this morning (he’d hacked the other boy’s Wayne-Mail inbox when bored and left to his own devices in his Father’s office one day). Something to do with a software company that championed social justice projects. 

Clearly, Drake had organised this collaboration. The content of which was utterly dull.

What was far from dull, however, was the fading but utterly unconcealed collection of bruising on his lower left cheek, extending to the crook of his mouth. He hid it well, but Damian could tell that speaking normally was paining Drake. 

It hardly helped that the man was pale as sin. Moonshine pale, his Mother would have said. 

Damian stared. 

Drake could’ve easily delayed this appearance, but he hadn’t. Could’ve easily covered the offending blemishes with makeup, made them disappear. But he hadn’t. And he could have deflected or outright fabricated an explanation when he was asked, offhand but directly by the bemused interviewer, where it came from.

But he didn’t. 

Drake’s thin lips twitched imperceptibly with bitterness, before they smoothed into his usual cool, professional smile “No comment. Next question.”

Damian flicked his thumb against the power button at the side of the device, watched the glare of the screen die. And sat back. 

So. This was Drake’s play. Not outright condemnation. But he wasn’t going to be complicit, either. Damian didn’t know Drake too well, but he knew the man - boy? He knew DRAKE, despite how calculated he could be, also had a habit of being completely and utterly reckless. 

It was a challenge, in Drake’s classic, passive-aggressive sort of way. It said: look what you did. 

Drake seemed convinced of what he was doing. He seemed to have - perhaps, some sort of a plan. He was doing SOMETHING, although Damian was unsure what, to break this utter stalemate they’d been caught in.

Well. If Drake wasn’t going to remain inert, Damian couldn’t either. He had no idea what he wanted, or if it was inline with what Drake wanted. 

But it was SOMETHING. Not nothing.

This stranger wasn’t his Father. It lived in his skin, stalked the same hallways and rooftops as ever. Wore his face. But it wasn’t the man he knew, or thought he did. Not anymore.

Damian fumbled for his phone, and stabbed out five words that would change everything: 'Come and get me.’

Knowing the addition would ensure Drake responded, he hesitated: then added ‘Please.’

For a long, terrible moment, he wondered what he’d done. If Drake would even understand what he-

Bzzzzzzzt. Damian snatched up his phone again. The simple response read: ‘Omw. Eta: 20 mins.’

The youngest Wayne snorted. Typical Drake and his clinical precision. The phone buzzed again. 

‘Did something happen?’

Damian’s teeth ground together and his jaw clenched. Of course it did, Drake, you bloody FOOL. You were THERE. But, he knew that wasn’t what the other boy was asking. 

‘Not yet.’ he replied, with surly conclusion. 

Grayson had once said, when schooling Damian in the fine art of detective work: once is incidence. Twice is coincidence. Three times or more? That’s a pattern, Dames. 

It’s a mission of sorts, Damian thought. When in doubt, Mother had said, revert to your training: focus. He had set out what was to come next, so now he had to prepare. Supplies. He needed supplies. He hauled a large, once pristine hiking pack from his cupboard. Resolutely did not think about the trip to the mountains he and Father had taken. 

Clothes. Shoes. Patrol gear, he retrieved from the scruffy pile he’d left them in days ago, domino still tacky with glue. There was no question of leaving them behind. That felt - too much like an abandonment. 

Weapons. Some small art supplies. All of his various technologies. His worn copy of Machiavelli: The Prince. 

And if the soft Gotham Grizzlies t-shirt thieved from Grayson’s laundry basket accidentally made its way inside too, well. Damian tried not to overthink it. 

19 minutes had passed. Damian felt his whole body thrum with a deep ache, and didn’t stop to bid his bedroom goodbye before turning on his heel. 

In a monumental, cosmic act of poor timing, his Father answers the swell of the doorbell. Not Pennyworth. Damian curses himself as he recalls that the butler would be doing his morning survey of the gardens, the greenhouse, the vegetables and herbs in the allotment. Out of earshot. 

He’s hidden behind the curve of the bannisters as the front door swings abruptly open: his Father’s pupils pinprick in the sudden assault of morning sunlight, his silk dressing gown thrown around his shoulders with precisely reckless abandon. 

If Damian didn’t know that face well, he wouldn’t have caught the spike of shock that ran across it. 

Father’s pawlike hand, adorned with a dozen sutures and plasters, pulls the door open wider “...Tim.” 

Damian doesn’t want to look at his face. Doesn’t want to digest the raw blend of regret and guilt, uncertainty and resentment he knows will be there. He can’t turn back on this now: it’s done. He resists the urge to bolt, back up the second set up stairs, across the landing, down the hall and back, back again, to his bedroom. 

“Good. I-”

“Where’s Damian?”

The boy stares with resolute fascination at the carpet and will his feet to move. They don’t. 

“Tim.” his Father’s voice is deep with feeling “I know you’re hurt. I know you’re angry-”

“You know NOTHING of what I am right now.” Drake’s disembodied voice snaps “Where’s Damian?”

He forces himself to look. Sees the same suit, the same pale skin, a little clammier now from the speed of the ride. Sees the receding bruise, still livid, still stark: still undeniably there. It propels him down the stairs. 

Drake cocks his head, and his lips split into a startlingly familiar, wry, snarky smile “Got all your stuff?” his eyes dance “Clothes? Tech? Patrol gear? Weapons of various deadliness? Teddy? A hat to cover your horns?”

This is normal. This, Damian can do. He snatches the lifeline the other boy has thrown him and retorts vehemently “You’re not my bloody MOTHER, Drake.”

“Small mercies.” Drake mutters under his breath, utterly ignoring their Father stood, statuesque, like Midas’ sentinel between them “C’mon, then.”

Damian inhales, and resists the urge to scuttle to Drake’s side like a penitent traitor. Instead he stomps, as per tradition, over to the other boy’s side. 

“Master Tim, I don’t-” Pennyworth’s confused voice cuts through the moment like a blade. 

Silence. Damian doesn’t breathe. Can’t. 

A cool palm presses carefully to the top of his head, a firm tip of pressure holding him in place “Alfred.” Drake hesitates, conflicted for a moment “Damian can’t stay here.” 

Nothing follows. No ‘not now.’ But no ‘not ever again’ either. 

Drake fixes the butler with a regretful, reassuring smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes “We’ll be in touch, Al. Promise.”

Damian adjusts the weight of his backpack on his shoulders, feels the dig of it biting into his skin through his clothes. It feels heavy, far too heavy “Please take care of my animals while I am gone, Pennyworth.”

Drake shifts his palm from the younger boy’s head to his shoulder and tugs him with firm gentleness over the threshold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some notes on the world status!
> 
> Robin ages: God knows what they actually are but I’m in charge, dammit.  
> Dick - 29  
> Jason - 25  
> Tim - 17  
> Damian - 12
> 
> Batcat wedding: almost happened as per Tom King’s bowel movement of a comic book arc. 
> 
> Ric ‘existential amnesiac crisis’ Grayson: at large and living his fantasy. 
> 
> Jason: just made himself publicly 'alive again' as per current canon. 
> 
> Tim’s friends: Kon & Bart are dead (sorry my loves) but Stephanie is alive and kicking. 
> 
> Damian’s friends: the titans are around but unmentioned, Colin is alive, and Jon is aged-up as per most recent canon. 
> 
> Robin genealogy: I love my Robins to be a diverse bunch so in my canon Jason is Hispanic (Mexican), Tim is of Northeastern Asian origin (Japanese/Korean etc) and Dick is Romany (I think that one is actual canon). And obviously Damian is of Arabic/Chinese descent, as well as white. 
> 
> Fic/chapter titles are based on a painting by Renaissance artist Caravaggio, and the Catholic philosophy that comes with it. 
> 
> Why will become clear later...
> 
> Liked it? Drop me a comment!


	3. Shelter the Homeless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Tim and Damian come together, break apart, then come together again. 
> 
> This chapter from Tim's POV.

Tim liked kids. And he was pretty good with them. No, seriously. 

He had it on good authority from a diverse mix of Gothamite spawn (from the gutter to the mansion houses on 34th), that he had an average score of 8/10 when it came to kids. 

Courtesy of Rate-a-Robin.com, by the way. Dick was winning in every rating category, because of course he was. 

(He’d lost his coveted 9/10 spot when some spoiled brat from Portentia Prep Academy had dropped her iPhone during a kidnapping rescue. Apparently she’d been vlogging the...experience...for her 22,396 followers, and didn’t appreciate being interrupted for so trivial a thing as Having Her Life Saved. Incidentally, Tim knew how many followers she had because she told him. Many, many, many, MANY times). 

...okay, so perhaps sometimes kids were the worst.

But it wasn’t just a Robin thing. Not just about posing for selfies or tossing the odd fanboy/girl a stray token or two from patrol.Tim liked (most) kids because they weren’t as complex as adults were. Not in what they felt, but in how they thought. They were open and honest and easy to appeal to, to talk to. They knew how to listen. 

And then along came Damian Wayne, the most un-kidlike kid imaginable.

No, that wasn’t fair. True, Damian (when he’d first arrived) had spoken and acted like some kind of psychotic adult midget with the syntax of a Bond villain. In fact, that’d been a theory of Jason’s for awhile: that he wasn’t 10 at all, just a vertically impaired double agent sent by Talia to infiltrate the Batcave. It wouldn’t be so unlikely in the freakshow circus they called ‘family.’

But as time passed, it’d become obvious that behind all that bluff and conditioning, Damian was exactly what he should be: 4 ft 9 inches and 100 pounds of Mommy/Daddy issues, false bravado and a desperate need to be loved and accepted. 

That didn’t make him any easier to DEAL with, though. 

And besides, the rediscovery of Damian had been a 92% Dick Grayson job. He’d been the one to draw the brat out from his shell and hold him, Simba-style, proudly aloft for the world to see. Before...before The Incident, you couldn’t get Dick to shut up about Damian. How the boy liked arcade games and dogs and kitties and art and novelty socks and did you know he’s an AMAZING artist, Tim?!

(Tim? Still a little bitter? Nope). 

Anyway: it was Dick and pretty much Dick alone that spoke Damian-ese. Bruce hadn’t even come close to mastering it, despite some promising nuggets here and there. In fact, Lost in Translation was a pretty good summary of their Father-son relationship. 

And Dick wasn’t here, anymore. Not in any way that mattered. So what the HELL was Tim supposed to do now…?

He hadn’t predicted this, let alone expected it. 

Tim snuck a sidelong glance at the younger boy sat shotgun beside him. He’d already done a cursory survey when he’d entered the manor: clean (freshly showered), fed, not overly tired, not limping. In fact, all the superficial little nicks and scars and bruises had been well over five days old on the kid. Physically, Damian was fine. Better than fine. 

Thank God. For a stomach-dropping moment, Tim had wondered if Bruce had utterly lost his few remaining marbles, and - done. Something. To Damian. 

He hadn’t been patrolling, but Tim had assumed that was because Bruce had banned him for….whatever reason. Now? He wasn’t so sure. 

WHY had Damian called him?

Tim shifted gear as an amber light flickered with gritty static to green, and he dragged the wheels beneath them into conflict with the tarmac again. It felt gruelling, though the motor and suspension was pristine. Like they were driving through tar or taffy. Like the city didn’t WANT them to go. Overhead, a halo of ominous grey cloud crept closer. 

“I didn’t know you had a car.” Damian said, abruptly, startling Tim out of his reverie with an abrupt bump. 

The older boy pressed his lips together “I don’t, really. I sort of...borrowed it from the company and never gave it back. It’s safer to drive myself places, these days.”

He’d been disenfranchised from the chauffeur’s and the pomp for awhile now, preferred the autonomy driving brought. The bourgeau side of being a Wayne had never really sat well with him, anyway. 

He wasn’t thanking Dick just yet, but that’d been one of the good things to come out of Red Robin: the independence. To be his own detective, lame as that sounded. 

Damian sniffed, shoving his wrist under his nose in what Tim knew was a nervous tic, wrapped up in dismissal “Trust you to be a moocher, Drake.”

There was that new syntax again. Ever since Jon, Damian had started to sound more and more like a boy his age. ‘Moocher’, hey, for sure, damn right. He was getting there. He HAD been getting there. Talia’s Assassin Baby wouldn’t have been caught DEAD using ‘pauper colloquialisms.’ 

An awkward silence descended. Tim dragged thin fingers through his hair (a little lank - it was so fine it always caught grease really fast, and the hair gel from the interview wasn’t helping) “We’ll figure this out, Damian.”

It fell out of his mouth flat and heavy, like a cat choking up a hairball. Tim repressed a wince as Damian turned beady green eyes upon him “Are you asking me, or telling me?”

C’mon, Drake. You’re the adult here, remember? (And God, he could never get used to that).

“Telling.” He replied, dredging what authority he had into the word. 

Strangely, it seemed to work. The younger boy flicked his dark lashes up and down Tim’s form, then sat back, wedging himself tighter into his seat than seemed possible. At ease, soldier. 

Of course Tim wasn’t ACTUALLY ignorant of why Damian had called him. He was just...baffled by it. It didn’t seem in character, or at least, not the character of Damian he knew. The blood son of fanatical loyalty to his Father, and for whom violence was a knee-jerk reaction to practically everything. 

Damian wanted sanctuary. From Bruce. With TIM. What the hell was that?

Sure: Bruce had crossed the line. Tim was pissed, IMMENSELY pissed. And hurt, moreso than he was willing to examine right now. Jason was, too, and Tim knew their wayward brother (?) had had his own physical run-ins with Daddy Dearest lately. And yes: Tim was determined that this time, Bruce would understand - or be MADE to understand - just how out of order this was. 

There would be consequences. Precisely what, Tim wasn’t sure.

But what he’d never expected? Was this. Damian deciding to just - walk out, on his Father. Leave. That was huge, it was more than huge, it was life-changing. The one thing Damian wanted more than anything in the whole WORLD was Bruce’s love, respect, approval, and the cowl. Tim knew this as law. Leaving jeopardised all of that, even if it was temporarily. 

He had done it before, but never with this much melodrama. And that’d been just to run riot for a few days, or stay with Dick for a month or so, or bug Jason or Duke until they caved and hung out with him. Or sleepover at the Kent’s. 

Tim was always the very last person Damian would ever go to for help; let alone sanctuary. Which meant this wasn’t just about that. It was about - 

Who Bruce had hit. Hurt. 

The older boy felt like his head was filling with cotton wool, going fuzzy around the edges. This wasn’t just about disapproval, or fear. This was an alliance. This was Damian picking a side. His. Tim’s side. 

That felt ominous and almost...sweet, at the same time. Tim shuddered. 

Where were they, he and Damian, exactly? They certainly cared for one another, that was undeniable. There was a flimsy sort of...ceasefire, and at least a speck of trust. But they didn’t really know each other. 

At least they weren’t beating on one another anymore, the older boy thought, with dark irony. Damian had hit Tim, a lot. Tim had hit Damian back, a LOT. Now that he thought about it...it was all totally normalised, with them, wasn’t it? From the top down: Bruce fighting Dick, Dick fighting Jason, Jason smacking Tim around when he was revived…

Tim swallowed. It was a cascade: a pattern. How the Hell hadn’t he seen that?

Jason’s smug, disembodied voice crawled into his ear ‘We’re totally and completely fucked in the head, T-bone, all of us. Only difference between you and me is you refuse to see it.’ 

Yeah, Tim thought, grimly. Yeah. 

We have to be better. He, at least, had to be better. 

“I don’t want to fight with you anymore.” He said into the thick, broody silence. 

Damian snorted, flexing his miniature fists with fingernails bitten to the quick “Unrealistic and naive of you.”

Tim shook his head “No, I mean. Physically. I never want to fight you again. Unless it’s sparring. I won’t, I refuse. There’s no reason for it. Got it?”

Damian was looking at him like it was a trick question. Confused. And so he should be: nobody in their entire damn family had ever ONCE proposed that, maybe, hitting one another wasn’t the answer. And it WAS the answer in their ‘profession’! Not killing, oh no, hard pass, but everything else? Go wild. 

The younger boy stared at him with open suspicion, expression caught in a strange, conflicted mish-mash of emotion. When he wasn’t scowling Damian had a disturbingly doll-like quality to his features. Bulbous eyes and arched, thick eyebrows, a heart shaped face and pouty lips. It wasn’t ugly or cute, but somewhere inbetween. 

‘Like a fucking plushie gargoyle.’ Had been Jason’s conclusion. 

“...fine.” he gritted out, eventually, shoving his hands deep into his armpits and squirming further down in his seat. 

Tim blinked. Huh. That was...surprisingly easy. 

Now Dick’s bright wisdom invaded his head: ‘Damian’s like any kid, what he really wants is rules, whether he likes to admit it or not. Boundaries.’

“Where are we going?” Damian snapped, suddenly businesslike. It may have been Tim’s imagination, but he seemed a little more at ease, now. 

“The airport.” he muttered, taking a left turn off the freeway, following a faded sign to Gotham International North “I’ve got...some business, in Europe. Daytime and nighttime business.”

His only plan right now was to just have Damian tag along for whatever he’d been planning on doing anyway. It seemed as good a solution as any - might even give him some time to think. Damian needed that, too. 

“A case?” the younger boy enquired, sitting up a little. 

Tim’s lips quirked “Thought that’d perk you up. Here.” 

He rummaged in the drive-side drawer and tossed his tablet across the car. Damian caught it deftly, setting about cracking the pattern login without a word. Tim smirked. Stubborn brat. Well, at least it’d keep him occupied. They weren’t far now: the ugly behemoth of concrete and glass and steel was looming ahead of them, small shining planes dipping in and out of the structure like languid bullets. 

The daytime business was hilariously boring: a supplier contract up for tender in Italy for manufacturing machinery. 

Since Bruce had given Tim the dubious role of Head of Stock Control within Waynecorp, to induct him into the business slowly (and via the dullest avenue possible), it was his responsibility to go and hear the various pitches. It was useful experience, sure, but Bruce had just - sort of assumed that Tim would be interested in a company job, long term. 

Bruce was great on assumptions, well-meaning or not. 

The nighttime business was why Tim was REALLY going across the seas. 

It was a case Dick would’ve described as ‘juicy.’ Spryal had identified what they believed was a serial murderer, running covert riot in Eastern Italy. Dozens and dozens (73 so far) of men between the ages of 16 to 82 had turned up dead, beaten, usually. They hadn’t been linked until a calling card had been identified, a strange mark stamped into the back of the victim’s neck.

A square with a tiny effigy of a woman inside. 

Not that Spryal cared about random civilians being murdered; but they DID care when said random civilians included corrupt officials, persons of interest, informants and even an agent. Which was no small feat. It was unclear whether the perpetrator was some kind of gun for hire, or a maniac vigilante.

Well. Maniac vigilante’s were sort of their speciality, after all. 

Tim deftly flicked the wheel, pulling into the warren of the multi-storey airport car park. Beside him, Damian had long since hacked his tablet, and was scrolling feverishly through the casefiles.

“Where did this directive come from?” he demanded, clearly suspecting Bruce. Which would’ve been awkward. 

The older boy snorted and pulled into an empty spot, cutting off an irate Gothamite, who honked his car horn in bleak protest “Nope. Funny story, actually. It’s a cast off from Spryal. I owe Dick’s old associate Tiger a favour.”

“Tiger?! Of SPYRAL?!” the boy squeaked, then spat viciously on the floor, before letting out a stream of what Tim was certain was positive filth in Farsi “I will have nothing whatsoever to do with that wretched cesspit of an organisation!”

Oh boy. He had no idea Damian had met the man. Although he should’ve expected Damian to hate him regardless - he, and Spryal, had practically stolen Dick from them for months. 

Tim, for his sins, didn’t mind the guy at all. He’d been a sensible foil for Dick’s shenanigans, and was probably one of the reasons why their brother had made it back to them in the first place. 

“I’ve no idea what you just said, but I’m pretty secure when I say: language. And don’t spit in my car, that’s disgusting. Secondly, you’d be surprised what the Black Market in favours can do for you. If you play it right.”

The young detective had been cultivating his own network of connections for awhile now. And a good thing, too. You never knew when you’d need allies in a crisis. Like right now...maybe.

He hoped it wouldn’t come to that. 

“It isn’t YOUR car.” Damian was touting furiously “Who knows about this?!” 

Clearly, he was talking about Bruce: Tim yanked open the drivers door, prompting Damian to scramble, fuming, to follow “Well. He is the World’s Greatest Detective. But I don’t think he’s looking.”

The younger boy continued to glare at him as he stalked around to the trunk of the car. Tim took a long moment to inhale sharply, fighting a spear of headache, before pinging the trunk open and and grabbing his briefcase and duffle. 

Damian greedily snatched for his backpack, and stomped ahead, nose in the air. 

They entered the airport in sullen silence, the bright lights and piercing squeaks of rubber on linoleum making Tim’s headache creep deeper. He commandeered a luggage trolley, and had a brief, mad image of Damian riding on top of it like a Persian King. Not out of the realms of possibility. 

“Are you associating with - the League?” the kid asked, warily, sidling a little closer. 

Tim shuddered. Talia and her creep of a Dad? No thanks “GOD no. Not recently.”

Damian’s fists curled “Not RECENTLY-?!”

The older boy winced, lifted his fingers to his temple “Christ, Damian, don’t SHRIEK.”

“I do not shriek, Drake!” Damian barked, working himself up into a tantrum, and made to turn on his heel. Tim snatched him by the backpack straps. 

“Stop that.”

“Let me go! I’m leaving!”

Tim pulled him sharply back, expression settling into a thunderous grimace: this was getting out of hand. He moved his hand to the brat’s shoulders and pushed down on them, insistently, until Damian scowled up at him, bristling. 

“Do you mean that?” he said, slowly and deliberately. 

The kid struggled. Then wilted, suddenly. Caved in on himself again, arms wrapping around his belly. He looked like a ragged piece of lost property, wrung out and sore and directionless. Tim’s heart squeezed. 

“....no.” he muttered, sullenly. His jaw was pinched in the way it usually did when any normal child would be about to cry. 

The older boy sighed. Crouched down on his haunches so that they were on a level, the redness in Damian’s ears and cheeks becoming suddenly apparent “Look.” he struggled for a moment, before settling on a straightforward plea “Just. Stick with me. Okay? I’m trying to figure out...what this is, and what to do, as much as you are.” 

Damian was looking at him openly now, eyes wide and lips a thin, grim line. He was scared. Tim knew that, and he was sort of scared, too. But he couldn’t show it. It was crunchtime, now, the kid had thrown himself upon him and now he was a Big Brother whether he was ready and qualified for full custody, or not. 

“Listen.” he said, lowering his voice as a passing Mother huffed fussily, looking them over with disapproval “I know I’m not - your first choice, to call. I know I’m about your only choice, right now.”

Something like hurt flashed over in the brat’s face “That’s not true.” he licked his lips “You have no idea why I -”

He trailed off, for once lost in articulation. Tim took pity on him, smiling weakly “Alright. You’re right. I’m sorry. I don’t know. We don’t know each other from sweet Fanny Adams, as Alfred would say.”

But we are brothers, he almost said. But didn’t. 

“But.” he begins, instead “You called me, and I came to get you. So until you decide you don’t want to anymore, you stay with me.” he extended a pale hand “Deal?”

The kid hesitated, then extended a wary, nut-brown hand to meet his, awkwardly. Tim was surprised to find that his grip was strong but his skin was cool, not sticky, and a strange mix of calluses and baby-soft. He tried not to think about how small Damian’s still pudgy fingers were, locked beneath his. 

Tim nodded shortly, and stood with an abrupt click of his knees “Good. Now let’s try not to kill each other before we reach the gate, okay?”

Easier said than done. 

After being checked in, checked by security, and re-checked because the authorities weren’t ENTIRELY convinced that they weren’t some kind of fraudulent Wayne impostors, they emerged bleary-eyed into the duty free. Damian had one hand on the handle of the trolley beside Tim’s, in what he was sure he didn’t know was a parody of clinging to the older boy’s skirts. 

“I’ve never been to an airport before.” he murmured, with not-quite-awe. 

Tim smirked wryly “Private jets or bust, huh? Sorry, my budget won’t cover that.” he glanced around “Go grab some snacks, it’s a long flight.”

The kid stomped off grudgingly, muttering about not being an INFANT and not needing SNACKS. Tim watched him go for long moment, bemused. 

‘Better watch out, Timbers. Once Damian gets you, he’s got you. A Dames is for life, not just for Christmas.’ Dick muttered smugly in his inner ear. 

“Can it.” Tim shot back at the ghost-Dick, grouching. Okay, so the brat was growing on him. Like a rash.

It would’ve been a peaceful moment, had a terribly familiar voice not cut through the silence like a cut-glass scimitar:

“My, my, my! Timothy WAYNE, just imagine bumping into you here.”

It was Vicki Vale.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to clarify, when Damian swore in Farsi it was because (I assume) Farsi is Tiger's first language. In my personal canon he and Tiger would've met at some point through Dick, and Damian being the possessive sort, wouldn't like him one bit.
> 
> Damian's first languages would be Arabic, Mandarin and English, I'd imagine. It makes the most sense from Talia's perspective. 
> 
> Tim and Tiger would be kindred spirits I think, they're the straight men to all these melodramatic goths running amok. 
> 
> Liked it? Got questions? Comment!


	4. Feed the Hungry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Damian and Tim become true allies.
> 
> This chapter from Damian's POV.

Damian was never setting foot in a public airport EVER again.

It was squalid, confusing and most offensively, teeming with ordinary people. Screaming infants and luridly orange Mothers with putrefied platinum hair. And TEENAGERS. It stank. It certainly didn’t help that the only recognisable food vendor was Batburger, of all the cruel jokes the universe could’ve piled upon him today. 

“Welcome ta Batburger, kiddo! What can I do ya for?” trilled the cheerful country bumpkin from behind the grubby counter.

Damian wrinkled his nose. An aperitif of good grammar would be nice, but he had an inkling that was in short supply, here. He perused the neon menu glaring down at him with undisguised disdain; his stomach growled and clenched, despite the paltry offering available. 

“Three Vegebite Burgers, two large fries, a Siren Smoothie…medium Sidekick Sliders...” 

The youngest Wayne had found himself with increased appetite of late. He prayed it precipitated some kind of growth spurt. He hesitated, before adding “And a Batkid meal.”

So, Damian had a confession to make: he was a collector.

It was an enjoyable hobby. It was satisfying to take clobber and clutter and make it uniform and orderly. He also liked owning things. Grayson had once described him as a magpie, a pursuer of shiny treasures. He wasn’t wrong. When he had lived with his Mother, the boy had rarely been allowed to KEEP things. 

Not animals, their soft skulls crushed underfoot as soon as they were discovered in his rooms. 

CERTAINLY never toys. Not even instruments, or artistic supplies, or books - all keenly confiscated as soon as his lessons were done. 

So now he coveted things. Coins and tiny plastic tokens from the various arcades he and Grayson visited. His Father’s cufflinks, whenever they were orphaned from a pair during some party or gala. Todd’s latest helmet, even some of Drake’s jackets (the closest to his own size). 

The older boy had once warily described it as the behaviour of a fledgling serial killer, which Damian resented. Plenty of collectors didn’t run around eviscerating people. It was a noble pursuit!

And so, since their little family rendezvous at the Gotham Batburger beside Wayne Tower (during the latest Bane affair), Damian had been surreptitiously swiping Batkid meals. He hadn’t forgotten Todd’s THIEVERY in taking his first figurine, a Red Hood, from him. Grayson had bought the meal for him, insulting though the sentiment had been! The toy WAS his. 

He was now the (not terribly) proud owner of four Red Hoods, a Joker and a Batgirl (Gordon edition). Disappointingly, he was yet to ensnare a Nightwing, a Batman or a Robin. 

He’d taken vicious pleasure utilising his excess Red Hood’s in various embarrassing functions around the manor. One was currently guardian of the toilet roll cupboard, another trekking intrepidly across the planes of Alfred the Cat’s litterbox. Pennyworth had been far from amused (cat and man) but had muttered that ‘at least the young master is playing.’ 

Damian bypasses the tray counter, instead piling all his provisions into his arms, inhaling the first Vegebite burger in three mouthfuls. He was starving. He hadn’t eaten much over the past few days, due to...reasons. 

Reasons like brooding. 

He tears open the kid’s meal; the damp cardboard surrendering without a fight. He glances around, wary of Drake’s barbs were he to find out Damian had bought one. He rummages inside, bypassing the lank fries and damp swill of grease pooling at the bottom of the box. 

A bright flash of plastic, scarlet and red, lay at the bottom: the boy cusses viciously. ANOTHER Red Hood?! He snatches it. 

...it’s not a Red Hood. Too slight, and the costume is adorned with sporadic slashes of yellow. The boy blinks; it takes him a moment. Ah - it’s a Red Robin. 

He lets it settle in the loose curl of his open palm for a moment, smirking up at him.

It’s that atrocious get-up with the wings: Drake’s equivalent of the Discowing, all flounce and parade and little sense. That stupid contraption had never really functioned properly, and it’d led the fledgling detective to more than one near miss. Damian MAY have tampered with it a few times, just to see Drake fall flat on his face. 

The boy turns the figurine over: there’s a stiff little button, in the centre back of the toy. He presses it. The wings pop outwards, abruptly. Not unfurling neatly as the true ones did, segmented. Just chunks of plastic leaping backwards and forwards. He snorted, unimpressed by either the original or this tacky duplicate. 

He idly snatches a handful of fries, thinking.

When he and Todd and Grayson and Father and Duke had gathered in that first Batburger, Drake had been dead. Or, thought dead. Damian was beginning to develop severe trust issues with the Grim Reaper: death may as well be a revolving bloody DOOR in their family. Todd was even keeping score, handing out badges and coupons. Apparently, five ‘real’ revivals got you a prize of some sort.

Nobody was tempted to aim for it. 

They all seemed to pass like ships in the night. Loose collections of absent and not absent. Never all together at one time. The uninitiated or suspicious may well call it a curse.

...that had been a strange time. Drake being not-dead. 

Damian had mourned Drake, but it had been difficult to mourn somebody so intimately associated to him, but that he didn’t truly know. He...more regretted Drake’s passing than anything. Regretted how he had treated the older boy: regretted all the cruel actions, crueler words. Regretted not taking more time to...to. To KNOW him. 

To be patient. Patience was not his virtue. 

But when Drake had returned, it had been more a relief than a revelation: a return to the status-quo, rather than upending of it. Drake had travelled with their Father to revive Damian, and Damian...Damian was glad Drake had come back. 

They hadn’t fought, since then. But nor had they seen any more nor less of one another. And now: this.

The youngest Wayne gulped down his Siren Smoothie, grimacing, and dropped the remaining Vegebite Burger, fries and sliders into a paper bag. Shoved his new figurine to the very bottom of his backpack, out of sight and mind, and turned on his heel. Back towards where he’d left his….brother (?). 

A small pharmacy outlet caught his eye: gave the boy pause.

He wanted to try harder, he realised. He did want to know Drake better: dangerous though that was. They had a nice equilibrium of NOT hating one another. It would be...difficult, if they discovered they didn’t particularly like one another. But then, that wasn’t something that could be changed.

Damian didn’t NEED Drake to like him. He didn’t. He didn’t need ANYONE to like him. (Shut up). 

Muttering to himself, he forced his feet forward and purchased a small tube of Arnica cream and some headache pills. His patented Wayne Glare was all the cajoling the woman behind the counter had needed when she’d asked, suspiciously, if Damian was old enough to buy medication. Old enough or no, he’d learned, he was ALWAYS rich enough. A few extra crisp notes had sufficed to seal the deal. 

When he returns to Drake, he seems to be being accosted by a female. The boy stops in his tracks, eyes narrowing.

He analyses her familiar stance: hip cocked, kitten heels pristine. The coiffed sweep of her auburn hair and the nauseating linger of overly floral perfume offending the air. A small, expensive clutch purse with pen, paper and smartphone: an assassination casket. 

Vicki VALE. The nosy parasite. 

He glances between the woman and the older boy: Drake appears irate but not disarmed. He is safe to approach. 

He announces his arrival with an overt stomping of sneakers on linoleum, arms still full of food “This sustenance is sub-par, Drake! I demand we repair to a better establishment.”

It may be Damian’s imagination, but he thinks he sees the tense set of Drake’s shoulders lessen a little as he interferes. 

The older boy’s lips quirk upwards and he goes to reply, when Vale sidles closer, cutting him clean off “Where on EARTH did you find him, Tim darling, a renaissance fayre?” 

A flash of red invades Damian’s vision and his heart and fists squeeze, teeth gritting. He did NOT appreciate this creature’s familiar tone. She did not KNOW Drake! Her affectation of friendliness was a farce, a clear farce!

“Shut up, Vicki.” Drake dismisses the woman, irritated; he takes the younger boy’s elbow, turning them both from their assailant “Damian, a Bat Burger won’t kill you. Hurry up, the gate’s open.”

(Disclaimer: a Bat Burger, when consumed in large quantities could, in fact, kill you). 

They had walked but a few steps before the Vale creature leapt forward, a companionable, clawed hand on Drake’s elbow, and leaned in “My my, but you are scattered at the moment, aren’t you? Honestly. Keeping up is like playing a game of Whac-a-Wayne.”

Damian’s free hand flashes, instinctively, for his pocket: but his blades had been confiscated at security.

The journalist blinked her synthetic eyelashes, like fat dead spiders on her eyelids, and cocked her head in faux-innocence “You keep disappearing and popping up all over the place.” she licked her lips, teeth flashing “Speaking of which, Dickie Grayson-”

That DOES it. 

Damian ducks sharply behind Drake’s lower back and shoves the woman, HARD, spitting “We’re none of your fucking business, harlot.”

A cool hand settles on the back of his neck and tugs him abruptly back; slides across his collar to pin him to Drake’s front, the snakelike press of his soft linen shirt making the younger boy grimace “DAMIAN.”

Drake sounds ANGRY. Very, very angry: the boy can tell by the utterly icy tone with which the older boy speaks. 

But not with him, Damian realises. Well, not primarily with him. He looks up into Drake’s thunderous face. 

He shivers. The older boy’s ordinarily cool eyes seem opaque, like black ice. Drake says, delicately and deliberately “It is none of your fucking business, though, Vale.”

Damian grouches lowly “Hypocrite!”

The arm across his chest squeezes, briefly “Hush.” Drake’s eyes remain fixed, with keen dissection, upon the reporter “Whatever angle you’re trying to put on what you THINK is happening Vicki, you won’t get one scrap of information from us.” his eyes narrowed to slits “We’re not carcasses for you to pick over.”

The creature examines her acrylic claws, unperturbed “I could help you, you know. You’re up to something. I can tell.” 

Damian bristled; Drake remained unperturbed “No, thanks. See you never. Bye.”

The older boy reached down and shoved his hand firmly into Damian’s palm before he could protest, turning their locked fingers into a vice. And tugged him insistently away. Damian followed with an awkward jolt, unwilling. He threw a leer over his shoulder at the woman. 

Vale exhaled sharply, and called after them “I’m just a concerned party. One of many.” somehow, she was suddenly at Drake’s ear again “You’re a smart boy. You knew what you were doing, peacocking that blossom on air like that.” she gestured to the older boy’s lower left cheek. 

Damian FELT Drake go rigid, at that. 

“I’m more interested in what YOUR angle is, Timmy.” the creature said, sweetly, smile blithe. 

Damian wrenched at Drake’s unforgiving grip, their bones grinding and skin turning bloodless: but it didn’t budge: he hissed at the woman instead, thwarted from the kill “How about I angle my fist in your THROAT, woman.”

Drake exhaled, shakily; the younger boy’s head snapped up “Damian. Stop.” he murmured, half-pleading. 

Damian eyes dropped to his feet, his stomach curdling darkly with guilt. He had been provoked....he knew that. Expertly provoked, but, but he couldn’t just stand by and do NOTHING...

“You should put a toddler leash on that one. Or a muzzle.” Vale smirked, flippantly, snapping her purse shut with a pert ‘click’ “See you on the continent, darling. All roads lead to Rome, after all.”

She turned neatly on her heel, and retreated in the opposite direction to their gate. 

For a long, breathless moment, they simply stood: bound to one another and at a hapless loss of what to do or say. 

“You should have let me...” Damian began, under his breath, but trailed off. 

Drake deflated like a pierced balloon, and squeezed his fingers briefly “I know. Believe me, I wanted to, too.” he sounded exhausted. 

Damian felt the same, suddenly. Listless, torn to shreds: stretched too thin. They realised in comedic unison that they were standing there essentially holding hands, and leapt at once a little away from one another: Damian wiping the sweat from his palm, chin turned sharply down to hide his reddening cheeks. 

“Come on, we’re going to need disguises. Quickly.” the older boy said, businesslike. 

“Wait.” 

Drake blinked at him, and Damian shuffled his feet awkwardly “Hold out your hands.”

The older boy looked utterly lost, but did so without hesitation. Damian abruptly shoved the tube of Arnica and small packet of pills into his palm “Here.” 

When Drake didn’t comment, simply stood there gormless and unseeing, Damian snapped “It’s untreated, no?”

The older boy nodded slowly, still staring at Damian wide-eyed as if he’d grown a second head. Damian scoffed and folded his arms tightly “Tt. It’s a wonder you’re even ALIVE, Drake.”

Suddenly, the older boy smiled: actually smiled, and scuffed the top of Damian’s head with his left hand, the other curling over his gifts “Thanks, gremlin.” 

They proceeded to the nearest clothing store, a small chain with poor quality goods, but they had little choice. Drake wrestled his resistant prisoner into a ridiculous ‘I <3 Gotham’ t-shirt and cargo shorts (SHORTS! The devil’s work). The effrontery was crowned by a child’s sunhat and neon green sunglasses, and some disgusting sneakers with flashing lights installed in the heels. 

The boy had to admit, he barely looked like himself. But he didn’t have to LIKE it. 

“Cute.” Drake commented with a smirk.

“I could still kill you.”

“Nah, you won’t: you promised.”

“Tt.”

His only comfort was that Drake looked equally ridiculous, shedding his suit, tie, shirt and shining shoes for a generic hoodie and jeans. A baseball cap turned backwards on his head completed the transformation from Young Businessman to Dismissable College Dropout in one fell swoop. He also traded in his briefcase for a sensible, if less expensive, backpack to match Damian’s. 

Tired now, the sights and sounds and smells of the airport dissolved into an un-noteworthy blur. 

“Can I offer you a drink, sir? Headphones? A neck pillow?”

Damian blinked, and passed a fist over his eyes: oh. They were onboard the plane...already. He must’ve...stopped paying attention. 

He dismissed the overly perky flight attendant with grumpy dissent, and glanced across the aisle at Drake’s little enclave: at least the older boy had had the foresight to book them into business class. To bear economy was more than Damian could cope with, given recent events. 

Drake already had laptop and tablet setup, taking liberties with the complimentary wifi and disgusting brown muck they considered coffee on this airline. The older boy had dutifully taken two small white capsules and applied a generous helping of Arnica; which was - good. He looked a little less pained but no less exhausted. 

Damian, bored and not enjoying being ignored for the sake of work (however important), spoke “...Italy.”

It was more statement than question: Drake replied between deep gulps from his cup of not-coffee, eyes still fixed to his screens “You ever been?”

The younger boy considered this “As a child. Mother would take me on cultural enrichment trips. And missions.”

Drake snorted “Sounds idyllic.” Damian’s eyes narrowed at the implied criticism, and he hastily added “First stop is Venice. Have you been there?”

Damian shook his head, forcing Drake to look up to confirm his reply. Rome, he had done, for some weeks: he had been very small, and his only real impression had been one of heat and the smell of piss and the roar of engines. 

“Well. I think you’ll like it. There’s a lot of art and architecture there. You like that stuff.” Drake replied, nonchalant. 

Damian shifted uncomfortably. Yes, he did...like ‘that stuff.’ It seemed strange to hear that Drake knew that, however. To counter his discomfort, he scowled fiercely across the aisle “We’re hardly there to picnic by Lake Como, Drake.”

This was meant to be a MISSION, after all. Not a retreat. In either the militant OR vacation capacity. 

Drake shrugged “Why not? We have to appear to be holidaying, at least a little bit. Why not play it up?”

The youngest Wayne weighed this in his mind, idly kicking his feet against the gangway “I suppose I could indulge, for the sake of this farce.”

Drake’s lips twitched, and he hailed the stewardess politely for a refill “Attaboy.” 

When it becomes evident that the older boy was deep in his work, Damian resigned himself to the utterly asinine entertainment available. He flicked critically through the plethora of television and and movie releases, finding little of interest. He made it halfway through Seven Samurai before losing interest, having seen it seventeen times already. 

He found himself oddly entranced by an animated feature about a small yellow rat with lightning powers and an idiot, solving crime. He kept the screen turned away from Drake for the duration, lest he catch wind of this. 

He was dragged from his reverie when Drake’s tablet pinged with the familiar chime of an unread message. Damian subtly sat a little higher in his seat, and utilised his near perfect vision to read over the older boy’s elbow: 

The message, to his surprise, was from Oracle. 

‘Fly safe. Need anything? O’

Drake exhaled: rubbed at what seemed to be a kink in his shoulder before replying ‘All good. Well, all not good, but all superficially good. Everyone alive. Diddums likes Detective Pikachu. Think Hell must be freezing over.’

God dammit! Foiled.

...also, what kind of a incognito nomer was DIDDUMS? Damian preferred the old days: when he was known as Demon Spawn. Well...no, that was a lie. But he definitely hated this new...nickname. There was avoiding recognition, and being outright insulting. 

He was 98% certain that was one of Todd’s creations. That thick-headed piece of - Oracle was replying. 

‘Bluebird told me.’ a pause ‘You did the right thing.’

Damian shrunk down a little in his seat, fingertips toying with the toggles at his hood. The space between his ribs hurt. 

The space between Drake’s eyebrows was gently creased; he was staring through the screen, rather than at it as he typed ‘Why doesn’t it feel like I did, then?’

The boy shrank further into his drapery. But was forced to emerge to read Oracle’s reply: call it morbid curiosity. 

‘It rarely does. Will hold fort here. Call if you need. O’

Damian exhaled in unison with an unsuspecting Drake. He hadn’t known that he needed to hear that, but…

He lost himself in his thoughts for some time: when he emerged, he decided to bother Drake directly. There was little else to do, and he’d loathe to cause himself more embarrassment by engaging with the inflight entertainment channels. 

Damian launched himself up to perch on the arm of Drake’s plush chair, shamelessly eyeballing his screens. He blinked.

Numbers. Currencies. He followed the flit and slide of the older boy’s fingers, physical and digital, trying to decipher them. Funds. 

Drake was siphoning funds. No - no, not quite siphoning. Manipulating them, from one account to another. Some legitimate. Some not. 

Damian’s eyes narrowed “Our fugitive bonds?”

Drake sighed, frowning “We’re not fugitives.”

“Sure seems that way.” the younger boy grumped, sliding off the seat arm to lean over it, the hard line of metal and material digging into his stomach “You never truly trusted him, did you?”

Their Father, that is. He had known it, in principal. Had known it ever since he had hacked Drake’s little Villain List, and found himself, Todd AND their Father listed there. 

“I wanted to. But, no.” the older boy replied in low tones, after a long pause “To be honest, I never really trust anyone.”

Damian stared at him “Not even Grayson?”

He hadn’t known that Drake was quite so...cautious. Disconnected, even. 

Drake’s pale nostrils flared like the scarlet of the open mouth of a lizard “I trust Dick, yes. When he’s...all there. But not completely.” he drummed his fingers against the smooth chrome of his laptop, agitated “I trust him to be good. I don’t trust him to always make good decisions.”

...oh. That...that did actually make sense. Though Damian loathed to agree. But Grayson had never been on the list. 

I am not good, to you, Damian thought darkly “Not me.”

At that, the older boy actually turned in his seat to look at him. In the low cabin light, Drake was lit from below like a spectre on All Hallow’s Eve “Definitely not, no. At first.” 

The boy viciously squashed the spike of hurt that lanced in his chest. He HAD essentially introduced himself by trying to murder Drake.

...even he could admit that he lacked...shall we say...social niceties, back then. 

Drake was looking him in the eye; their heads were a little too close together, so Damian swung back “Look. It’s not like it was. The list…” the younger boy’s eyes narrowed; Drake sighed “You were a child. Are. And moreover, you’ve changed. You’re not volatile in the way you were. You know what you’re doing, and you...you make the right choice. Most of the time, nowadays.” the young detective nodded, seemingly to himself “When it counts, you make the right choice.”

Damian dug his fingernails into the seatrest, hard. His throat felt thick. He felt - suspended, over some deep, unseen pit. 

A neatly (manicured?) fingertip tapped him gently in the centre of his forehead “What I’m TRYING to say is I’d trust you with my life. Okay?”

The younger boy shuffled his weight from foot to foot, glaring down at his hands: absorbing this. The words hung between them like a noose. 

“...okay.” he concluded, finally, avoiding the other boy’s gaze “You. Too. I suppose.”

Drake cocked his head with a wry smile “It’s a start.” he rested his chin on his closed fist: ah, Detective Mode “You don’t have to be like him. Bruce, I mean. My Dad-” he hesitated “Nevermind.”

Damian wasn’t willing to let it go “You’ve never spoken of your Father before.”

Drake shrugged, but his eyes had gained that strange opaqueness again “He was a lot like Bruce, really. A good guy with a lot of demons.”

Damian nodded, slowly; licked his lips and said without malice “He died.”

“Yes. People have a habit of doing that on me.” came the strangely hollow reply. 

“...I’m sorry.” the boy replied, put-out; then he smirked around his sharp teeth and corrected, proudly “I came back, though.”

The older boy startled as if shot, then jerked his head around to look at Damian. The boy bristled. It felt, strangely, as if for the first time since this whole mess began - Drake was actually looking at him. Not through him, or at the horizon. 

Out of nowhere, Drake swallowed a snort, bent his head forward, and LAUGHED. 

“Yeah you did, brat.” he choked out, between not-quite-hysterical cackles “You sure did.” 

Damian was, quite frankly, scandalised “Are you broken, Drake?”

“A little, maybe.”

The boy sighed “We’re doomed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One day, Dick will learn about Damian liking Detective Pikachu and that will be a Very Dark Day for our Gotham Prince. 
> 
> The nickname 'Diddums' comes from an old British phrase 'aw, diddums.' It's used to mock somebody who thinks they're hard-done-by. It sounded like a Jaybird phrase to me, possibly originating from Alfred. 
> 
> For anybody who cares, yes, I am British. 
> 
> Liked this chapter? Tell me why! Drop me a comment. I love em.


	5. Bury the Dead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Tim becomes the Mom-friend and the boys, inevitably, find some real trouble.
> 
> All speech in Italian is bookmarked by an '(i)' symbol.

So: now Tim had two mysteries to figure out. The case, and his travelling companion.

Or, maybe Damian wasn’t a riddle at all. Maybe Dick had been right all along (as always). Perhaps if Tim stopped trying to solve the kid like a rubix cube, he’d finally start getting somewhere. 

Turns out the Demon Spawn had become a sweet, troubled kid somewhere between then and now. He’d probably been that way all along, but been too proud and damaged to show it. 

The then being homicide and the now being a full-blown custody battle, but: semantics. 

Tim turned the small tube of arnica oil over and over between his long, pale fingers, rolling it expertly. He smiled covertly at the sleeping boy across the aisle: Damian was curled in a loose ball like a nesting rodent, mouth half open and drooling inelegantly on his reclined flight chair. 

Tim resisted the urge to snap a photo. Contrary to popular belief, he did value his life. At least a little. 

The brat still had a gap in his upper jaw, where his right adult premolar was just erupting through the gum. Holy shit. He didn’t have a full set of adult TEETH yet, what was that? Something about that hit Tim low in the gut. 

How long was he going to be chaperone to the brat…? Damian wasn’t really growing properly for a nearly-13-year old, his mouth would get crowded soon. He’d need braces.

He had a kid. He had THIS kid. HELP. 

He quashed a spike of sheer panic. Crap, this must’ve been how Dick had felt when Bruce had not-died. It was horrible. But Dick had been - what, 27? He could’ve feasibly HAD a son by that age. This wasn’t fair. No...no, it’s okay. Damian was his little brother, not his kid. And God knows he didn’t need nor want another Father figure.

...maybe Tim should Google ‘how to brother.’ He was sure Wikihow would have an article or two...

More coffee: yep, that’d soothe him. Grease the gears of his tired mind, buzzing like a restless overwrought engine. Damian snorted gummily, threw a closed fist up into the air, assaulting some unseen enemy. Turned over with a soft rustle of cheap fabric. His sneaker laces had somehow become undone. 

Tim frowned.

That was something else to work on. When Vicki had...well, assaulted him, there really wasn’t any other word for it - Damian’s first instinct had been to try to attack her. That was supremely Not Good. He knew the kid had gotten better since Dick had raised him for awhile, but he was clearly slipping slowly back into old habits. 

He had to be able to tell when it was and wasn’t appropriate to - lash out, at people.

It wasn’t just about In Costume or Not In Costume, either. Sometimes, for reasons of self preservation, you just had to deck someone as a civilian to get by. They lived in Gotham, after all.

The frazzled detective filed that under TBC in his mind, and pushed the thought aside. They had six hours before landing, and he had a business case to prepare for and a serial murderer to catch. He drew up the files, ignoring the minute shake in his fingers: low blood sugar, probably. He asked the nice stewardess for some chocolate and chips. 

Tim awoke with a violent jolt.

His gut did an impressive vertigo-swoop as the floor rumbled beneath him, the metal and plastic skeleton around them slowing with a screech and a judder as it hit tarmac. Shit. He must’ve fallen asleep. His mouth felt like something small and fluffy had died in it, and there were half-melted globules of chocolate tacked to his laptop keys. Class act, Timothy. 

He shaded his eyes and squinted at the piercing sunrise creeping through the airplane’ windows hooded eyes. Yep, land.

Tim glanced over at his delinquent tagalong and was surprised to see that the impact hadn’t dented Damian’s consciousness. The brat had shifted in his sleep and was now spread-eagled almost upside-down across his chair. Like a nonchalant cat. An angry, scowling nonchalant cat. 

The older boy exhaled; unbuckled himself and slid neatly to the floor, approaching with learned caution. He’d learned the hard way to never, EVER sneak up on their baby assassin. He still had a fading scar on his temple for his troubles. 

He set a cautious hand on the crumple of the boy’s upper left arm “Damian.” a grumble and a snorf; Tim winced, and shook with gentle firmness “Damian. Wake up. We’re here.” 

As predicted, a miniature, mahogany fist launched itself sharpy at his chin.

Tim caught it deftly and squeezed, lowering his voice and making his tone light and easy in a blatant ripoff of Dick’s ‘Soothing Voice’ “Woah! Hey. It’s okay. You’re with me, with Tim.”

Wide, foggy green eyes blinked with suspicion, stupefied. Gradually the mug of sleep lifted a little, and within a moment, Damian recognised him. He didn’t relax immediately, but it was damn close. Tim rightfully took this as a compliment.

His lips quirked upwards, placating “You’re on a plane, to Italy. Remember? We’ve landed. Time to go.”

“...Drake.” the boy muttered muzzily, embarrassed. 

“The one and only.” Tim replied, wryly, squeezing the brat’s shoulder before releasing him “C’mon, don’t forget your stuff. And tie your laces.”

The older boy internally facepalmed. ‘Tie your laces’, Jesus, when did he become a Mom? Damian was 12, not 2. The kid was working his poisonous magic on him: my God, Dick had been right. He’d be buying a buggy and a bumper sticker soon if he didn’t snap out of it. 

It was interesting, though. For all he moaned and complained, Damian did exactly as he’d asked.

...he was. Well. Biddable. 

How had Tim never noticed that??? He knew Damian was eager to please, sure. But people he admired, like Dick, like Bruce. Like his Mother. Not Tim. And yet, now that he thought about it, for all the kid had his big rebellious moments...he was a good little soldier, most of the time. Tim shuddered. He’d been taught to follow orders religiously - and not just by Talia.

Something about that congealed in his stomach and turned to lead. 

Beside him, Damian yawned hugely and stretched up on tiptoes, arms high as if in surrender, exposing his belly. It was still a little round with pre-adolescence, despite the creep of muscle. Too much muscle. Somehow, this made everything seem infinitely worse. 

As they stepped from the plane, they were assaulted by a blast of North Mediterranean air, perfumed and moist. Tim wrinkled his nose, glancing warily up at the sun. He burned. Really, really easily. This could be a problem.

Apart from the hostile elements, the journey from the airport to the city centre was uneventful. The usual disorientation of different languages, sounds and smells crowded the young detective, but it wasn’t too bad. He’d been to the continent before, and anyway, he was too tired to overthink it.

He did keep a beady eye out for any stray Gotham reporters, however. But for now, there was no sultry flash of teeth nor camera lens. They were blessedly unwatched. 

Damian was doing his very best to appear indifferent to everything, and was failing miserably. 

As there were no real roads in the floating city, they had to board a large ferry to reach their hotel. The kid leapt the gap between pontoon and boat and swiftly raced to the other side, hoisting himself up onto the rails. Tim hurried to catch him, struck by the sudden irrational idea that Damian would tumble over the side. 

He dumped his bags on the floor of the ferry and leaned on the rails beside the brat, rolling his shoulders: letting some of the tension ease for the first time since they’d left the manor.

“The water’s so clear.” Damian observed, strangling his excitement. Tim smiled, slowly, glancing out at the expanse of blue stretching out in front of them, the chop of the waves snatching sunlight. 

“Yeah, it’s really...blue.” he agreed. Nothing like the grey swill of the Gotham docks. The sky, too, was somehow higher and larger. Like a ceiling made of thin glass. 

Their hotel was the most expensive in all of Venice. Tim had grappled with this, wondering if somewhere discreet would be best - but they were Wayne’s, they were here on Official Business, and to skulk around would likely draw more attention than doing exactly what was expected of them: to spend money like they had no idea what a dollar (or euro) even was. 

Plus, he was kinda sick of shitty stakeout motels. And Damian wouldn’t complain (well, not as much). 

(A very, very unexamined corner of himself may also be rubbing his newfound funds in Bruce’s face, too. But we won’t mention that). 

They shuffled through a revolving, gilded-gold door and approached the front desk, their tired feet gliding over the expensive marble floor. The immaculate receptionist greeted them with a broad smile “(i)Welcome to Il Pipistrello! How may I help you today, young man?(i)”

It was a sign of good training that she hadn’t taken one look at their ‘disguises’ from the airport shop in Gotham and sneered. Looks could be deceiving when it came to wealth. 

Tim smiled politely and retrieved his designer wallet (real leather, a present from Alfred - ‘it’s part of the costume, Master Timothy’).

“(i)Good morning, I’d like a premium twin suite, please.(i)”

“(i)One moment, sir.(i)” 

“I don’t require a babysitter, Drake.” Damian muttered ruefully under his breath, confirming Tim’s suspicion that, of course, the brat spoke fluent Italian. 

“I know. But it’s best we stick together.” he held up a hand as Damian opened his mouth “Look, kid, I know you’re totally competent to go solo. But what do you think the press and social services will think of me leaving a 12 year old alone…?”

The younger boy’s mouth abruptly snapped shut. His scowl deepened comically. Tim couldn’t hold back a snort of laughter “Believe me, I’m less than thrilled, too. You snore.”

“I do NOT! TODD does!” Damian protested. 

“Like a wild boar on steroids, yeah.” Tim replied, shuddering. 

“(i) What’s the name, sir? (i)” the receptionist interrupted, ignoring their outburst with consummate professionalism. 

“Timothy and Damian…” the young detective hesitated “Brown.”

The receptionist didn’t bat an eyelid, but clearly noted the pause. Tim hoped that wouldn’t make it into some kind of local gossip circle. Ha! They should be so lucky. 

A porter took their bags, and Tim headed for the elevator, Damian scuttling to his side, fuming “You sycophant. I can’t BELIEVE I have to bear the nomen of Fatgirl.”

“Steph is NOT fat, Damian.” the older boy admonished, flicking the brat’s ear “You should know it’s never, ever cool to talk about a girl’s weight, anyway.”

The brat rubbed reddening ear and swallowed a pout “Suckup.” 

The elevator pinged merrily at the top floor, just below the penthouse, and Tim pressed a tip into the porter’s ready hand “(i)Thank you. Can you recommend a restaurant? Somewhere discreet. Local. Outside the hotel. With vegetarian options.(i)”

The man smiled “(i)Of course. Pettirosso is a well recommended establishment a few streets from here, and is quiet with a broad of range of options.(i)”

“(i)Thanks.(i)” Tim tapped Damian on the top of his head to get his attention “C’mon, gremlin.”

Their room was 306. As the entire city was suspended on wooden struts, building’s couldn’t exactly put the high in highrise around here. But it was far enough off the ground to provide some comfort. Wayne’s liked to nest in rafters, after all. 

“Home sweet home.” Tim exhaled, shutting the door behind them with a soft click. The scent of fresh linen and expensive toiletries seeped into his skin. 

Damian began scouting the complex of one palatial bedroom with two queen beds, a desk, television and armchairs, a balcony and a huge bathroom as if sweeping for bugs. This businesslike approach was quite ruined when he finished his tour by jumping onto the bed furthest from the window, sneakers ON “It’s acceptable.” 

Tim rolled his eyes, dumping his bags on the other bed “Oh, great. I’m so relieved.”

Damian smirked at him. When he spotted Tim reaching for his toothbrush, he leapt from the bed and made a dash for the bathroom “Shotgun!”

The older boy smiled, bemused “Ungrateful brat.”

They each took a turn showering and changing. Tim let the pound of hot water on his bare back soothe the aches there, and spent a little too long just thinking about nothing. It was a lot. Despite how far they’d travelled, he felt like he’d left his head somewhere in Gotham, pinned beneath an oppressive grey moon. 

When he finally emerged he found Damian lacing himself into his usual polo-neck (a green one that Tim was sure had been a gift from Dick - he’d noticed the brat had no colour in his wardrobe) and full length slacks.

The older boy’s eyebrows his his hairline “Didn’t you bring any cool clothes? It’s hot.”

“I look DISTINGUISHED!” Damian protested, defensively. The long hair on the top of his head was still damp from the shower, and lay flat and curling slightly on top of his head, the ends swooping into his eyes. 

“You look sweaty.” Tim deadpanned, tossing his wet towel playfully into the outraged boy’s face “Borrow something of mine, if you like. We can always go shopping later.”

Amazingly, the brat compromised by stealing one of Tim’s plain white t-shirts he used for pajamas. Ah, well. Take your victories as they come. 

The restaurant Pettirosso was a small pizzeria in the warren of sidestreets around the back of the hotel, in a quiet nook overlooking a small tributary of the river. The staff were local and friendly, and directed the two rich ‘tourists’ to a small table in the corner of the alfresco dining area. Fresh flowers sat neatly in a small jam jar in the centre of the table, and the menu was just a handful of pizzas and pastas and side dishes printed on the single side of a sheaf of paper. 

Damian ordered two Pugliese’ and lemonade with some trepidation; Tim three espresso coffees and a Fiorentina.

“Fried egg on a PIZZA, Drake? That’s barbaric.”

“It’s great. Lots of protein. Especially when the yolk oozes all over the cheese….”

“Blech! Disgusting.”

A strangely peaceful quiet settled over the table. Tim pulled out his phone and began going over the information on their business contact, while the younger boy admired the architecture of a nearby church. 

Damn, he’d forgotten it was Saturday. The offices of the tender business he’d come to survey would be closed - but he could still give the owner’s son a call...

“Have you holidayed often, Drake?

Tim hummed, putting his cell away “Did some city tours as a kid, I guess. Mostly Mom and me. And never abroad.” he crossed his legs and sat back with a soft creak of slightly rusted metal “I came to Europe on a school trip a few years back. And with Bruce, a couple of times.”

Their food came quickly and Damian inhaled his two pizza’s with such speed and ferocity that Tim felt slightly nauseous. 

“Jesus, kid.”

“Whaff?” the younger boy swallowed harshly around a mouthful of mozzarella and tomato and basil “WHAT?”

Tim rested his chin on his hand, lips quirking upward “Nothing, just. Don’t blow our whole budget on carbs.” his brow furrowed “You must be overdue a growth spurt.”

The younger boy stopped chewing for a moment. Twirled his knife between his fingers, agitated. 

“I had an appointment with a specialist some months ago.” he said, slowly, to his plate “It seems the...contraption my Mother placed in my spine is hindering my growth. Or rather. The damage leftover is.”

Tim’s heart dropped through his stomach and to the floor “Seriously? Can anything be done to fix it?”

Fucking hell, he’d had no idea...he felt a sudden visceral stab of rage towards Talia. She was a smart woman - she would’ve known the risks when installing that supervillain chassis in her son’s body. 

Knew, and didn’t care. 

“There are options. Hopefully unnecessary ones.” Damian was saying, his sneakers kicking at the smooth cobblestone beneath his chair “It was suggested that we review the matter when I turn thirteen.”

It occurred to Tim that perhaps this information hadn’t been shared with him before, because his family assumed he wouldn’t care. That...that stung. 

...should the kid even be patrolling? Surely Bruce had evaluated that, thought it through. Tim fervently hoped so. 

“I’m sorry, Damian.” he replied, sincerely, after an uncomfortable pause. The younger boy only shrugged one shoulder, guardedly. 

Tim wordlessly ordered the kid a huge batch of gelato ice-cream, as if it made up for anything - and an iced coffee to sip sympathetically. They sat in silence for awhile, both digesting the strange shift that seemed to be happening, with crawling seismic pace, between them. It was exactly like two tectonic plates grinding against one another, pushing, pushing, pushing.

Tim would really rather there no eruptions, thanks. 

“Drake. Do you think…” Damian licked his lips, and hesitated “My Mother is a GOOD Mother?”

...and THERE it is. Holy shit. The universe was just dumping all over Tim today, wasn’t it. 

This was so clearly a question meant for Dick, but Dick was persona non grata, and just for a second, Tim hated him for it. He would’ve winced or groaned if he could, but the younger boy was looking at him with such fragile uncertainty that he KNEW he had to tread carefully. 

He stirred his iced coffee to buy some time, and frowned, turning the question over and over in his head. 

Damian looked utterly miserable, like he was waiting for a blade to fall. He expected the older boy to confirm his worst fears - that Tim considered the woman was a monster. In a strange way, he was probably also asking about Bruce, as well. But wasn’t ready to just yet. 

Tim’s immediate instinct was to say no, hell NO she’s not a good Mom, -she had you killed-. Case closed, moving on, let’s never speak of this ever again. But the kid deserved a proper answer. 

“I think.” he began, carefully “In as much as she’s capable, that she loves you. The problem is that she doesn’t love you the way a normal, emotionally well-adjusted Mother does. She loves you as a progeny: or an asset.” he rested both his hands on the table, not sure what else to do with them “Not just as a son.”

Something in Talia clearly struggled towards her instincts with Damian. The fact that she’d made so many clones, but never been satisfied with anything but the original was proof of that. Nobody could replace Damian because he was unique: and special to her because he was her only son. She just - didn’t understand that. Or refused to. 

But...

Tim inhaled, tapping the kid’s ice-cream glass to get him to lift his eyes “She thinks she wants what’s best for you - but that’s a pretty warped idea. She puts your success, and her goals, above your happiness. So…”

The kid shrunk a little in his seat. At that, Tim did wince “No, Damian. I don’t think Talia’s a good Mom.” he cocked his head with a small, sad smile “But she does love you. Remember that.”

After an eternity, the younger boy inhaled as though he was drowning. Then glanced, half aggrieved, half shy, up at him “Thank you.” 

Tim nodded and stood, pushing his chair back from the table with a long shriek that made him flinch “Okay. Come on, I need to call my business contact, and the cellphone service here is shhhhhhhhh…” he trailed off, and amended “Not great.”

….huh. 

Damian was staring at him like he’d grown an extra head “I’m not an imbecile, Drake. I know you swear.” he puffed out his chest proudly “I can cuss in many colourful variations across multiple languages.”

Tim rubbed the back of his head ruefully, a bit at a loss himself “Yeah, well. Maybe don’t do that.”

While Damian rushed to the canal edge to watch the gondolas dawdle languidly by, Tim tugged out his cellphone: found the number for ‘Gabriel Caprotti’, and dialed.

...he hadn’t told the kid yet, but their daytime and nighttime business was...sort of mixed up. The man Tim was originally supposed to come and meet, Alberto Caprotti, had been murdered two weeks ago. Murdered, Spryal suspected, by the very perpetrator responsible for the serial killings across Italy. They’d found the distinctive stamp in the back of the victim’s neck.

It seemed the murderer was honing his craft, too. 

Alberto had been left in the most gruesome condition of all the victims so far - his body left hung upside down inside a church, cut open, his ribs pulled grotesquely back from his chest in what was affectionately known as a ‘blood eagle.’ Tim had seen a lot of truly gross things, but - this was up there, for sure. 

Gabriel Caprotti was Alberto’s eldest son, and was understandably distraught about his Father’s death - but keen to continue on with his business. It was a great way into the investigation - Tim could use their legitimate business to find out more about the victim. Genius. 

“(i)You’ve reached the assistant to Mr Caprotti, how may I help you today?(i)” came the disturbingly bright female voice on the other end of the line.

Tim cleared his throat and dragged his Corporate Voice from somewhere in his chest “(i)Yes, good afternoon. This is Mr Wayne, I’m supposed to have a meeting with Mr Caprotti today.(i)”

The assistant tutted, sadly “(i)Ah yes! I am so sorry, Mr Caprotti has had to cancel all meetings to make urgent funeral arrangements for his Father. He has some free time tomorrow evening, if that suits?(i)”

The young detective felt a stab of annoyance, then guilt. A man was dead, Tim, for God’s sake. Don’t be insensitive. 

“...Drake.”

The older boy held up a finger in Damian’s general direction “(i)Yes, of course, I totally understand. Please let me know the exact time and place tomorrow.(i)”

“DRAKE.”

Tim hung up and rounded on his brother, irritated “Dammit, Damian, WHAT?”

He blinked. At some point, they’d wandered deeper into the warren of idle backstreets. The buildings had grown taller, the long, narrow passageways thinner. The sky was a thin, sharp block of blinding light far above them. It felt hotter here, oppressive. 

Damian raised a pointed finger and gestured behind Tim, eyes narrowed and voice purposefully calm “That.” 

At the far end of the street, a group of dark, shadowy figures were blocking their way out. Their eyes flashed, keen and bright with intent. The one closest to them was casually tossing a clip-point knife the size of two fists. 

Tim swallowed, mouth pressing into a thin line, and shoved Damian unceremoniously behind him “...right. That.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do NOT Google a Blood Eagle, folks. 
> 
> Oh no! A cliffhanger! What shall we do! We comment, that's what ;)


	6. Clothe the Naked

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Tim and Damian fight the locals, the law and pretty much everyone else. 
> 
> This chapter from Damian's POV.

Damian had been in many dark, ominous alleys before. He was less than impressed with the contents of this one.

Since Drake had taken it upon himself to become more gossip than detective, the younger boy had naturally fallen into the role of scout/bodyguard. Somebody had to be paying attention around here. When Damian said he was surprised Drake was even alive, he really, sincerely meant it. It was truly a miracle. 

Irritated at the barrier of the older boy’s forearm in front of his face, Damian growled and shoved (with very little force) at the small of Drake’s back, hissing “What the Hell are you doing?! I can fight!”

Drake wasn’t listening: his narrowed eyes were fixed with eerie calm on the mouth of the alley. It was sickly still. The air was thick and cloying around them, and far above, laundry fat with water flapped agitatedly in the pitiful breeze. Sparrows were chittering madly on the rooftops, sensing trouble. 

“Damian; are you armed?” Drake said, under his breath.

The youngest Wayne bristled “Naturally. What kind of idiot doesn’t bring weapons to a back alley in a foreign city?”

Silence.

Damian facepalmed dramatically, parodying Grayson, and glared up at the beads of sheepish sweat breaking out across Drake’s moon-pale temple “You know, Drake, I didn’t think this was even possible, but I’m disappointed in you. Even my expectations of your competence didn’t sink THIS low.”

“Shut up.” Drake muttered ruefully, keeping his posture strangely relaxed even as the younger boy balled his fists and gritted his teeth “Look, this isn’t Gotham. Let’s try to resolve this peacefully. We don’t want to attract attention.”

The ringleader, with his maddening grin packed with teeth, approached casually. He had thick eyebrows crying out for a pair of tweezers, bulging biceps and a low-slung vest which displayed a mass of thick chest hair and crescents of sweat beneath his armpits. Damian wrinkled his nose. 

“Stay behind me. Act scared. DON’T engage unless you must: no knives, and please, no shit-talking.” Drake instructed, succinctly: and cleared his throat. 

The young former assassin FUMED. This was an insult, a grievous one! These ingrates were trying to intimidate them and they, warriors that they were, were supposed to just stand there and let them?!

But, the intangible force of Drake’s authority as his elder kept his feet planted firmly on stone, unmoving. For now. 

“(i)Welcome to Venice, my friends!(i)” the ringleader, who Damian was christening Monobrow Shithead, said with faux hospitality “(i)You seem to have gotten yourselves lost.(i)”

“(i)Yeah, we’re actually fine. Just sightseeing in this - crummy, dingy back alley. Nice architecture, honestly: lovely drain pipes.(i)” Drake rambled, as was his custom when under pressure - or, was the older boy trying to confuse them? His fluent Italian certainly seemed to take them aback “(i)But it’s getting on towards siesta o’clock so we’ll just be going now.(i)”

The older boy snatched up Damian’s clenched fist and tugged him confidently towards the wall of assailants: one, two, three of them. The miniature assassin scowled: pathetic, they could take these troglodytes! 

The second largest mugger, who Damian named Bald Bastard, threw a thick arm just in front of Drake’s chest, blocking them and leering. 

Monobrow Shithead swung back into their path “(i)Those wallets and cellphones look veeeeeeery heavy for such little hands. We’re happy to help you with that.(i)”

“...ah.” the older boy said, delicately, nodding as if in the midst of a polite but slightly tedious business transaction. Damian rolled his eyes. 

He was aghast when Drake reached into his pocket and drew out his wallet and phone - decoys, Damian quickly surmised - they weren’t the valuables Drake had used at the restaurant - but it was the principle of the thing!

And he hadn’t thought to bring a decoy phone. Shit. He LIKED this phone. It had a Nightwing case. 

Drake looked at him expectantly, frowning. The younger boy endured a full body shudder of revulsion, but abidingly reached into his own pocket and drew out his cellphone. Luckily, it was encrypted to hemorrhage data and render itself useless when tampered with, but…

Bald Bastard snatched it from him with grubby fingers. Damian snarled, exposing his teeth. The asshole had the gall to RUFFLE HIS HAIR, winking. 

“(i)I wouldn’t antagonise my little brother. His bite is definitely worse than his bark.(i)” Drake interjected, tugging Damian neatly back before Bald Bastard lost a limb “(i)Seriously, he actually will bite you.(i)”

“As IF, Drake, I don’t want to contract rabies from these animals.” Damian scoffed, affronted. 

“Oho! Burn.”

“Shut UP, Drake, you’re not cool. Stop trying to be such a millennial.”

“I’m surprised you even know what that is, Einstein.”

Monobrow Shithead abruptly interrupted “(i)Hey, now. We’re not done.(i)” Drake tensed as the mountain of a man crouched down on his haunches in front of the younger boy, smirking patronisingly “(i)Hand over your watch, little man.(i)”

Damian froze.

The watch was a Rolex Submariner, true, although it was tired and it’s once flawless chrome surface was chipped. He’d stabbed a brand new hole in the leather strap himself so it would fit around his wrist, although the face was still far too big for him. 

It was his Father’s. Had been. 

He’d swiped it from the man’s wrist during a training exercise at a gala. Actually, the exercise had been suggested by the Kyle woman: a dare. ‘Bet you can’t steal from Daddy Dearest without him noticing, kitten.’ 

The boy’s throat grew hot and thick as he remembered the heavy weight of his Father’s palm on the crown of his head, the proud, amused quirk of his mouth: ‘keep it.’ 

“(i)This is mine, you piece of shit!(i)” he spat, viciously, in Monobrow Shithead’s face. 

The assailant’s expression turned dark and cruel “(i)I’m gonna perform a magic trick for ya.(i)” he slammed a thick, sweaty hand down on Damian’s wrist “(i)Poof! Now it’s no-(i)”

The boy lifted his right foot and slammed it with crushing force into Monobrow Shithead’s crotch. The man crumpled, mouth a large, round, scarlet O. 

Silence. The sparrows chirruped serenely. 

“Aw, hell.” Drake muttered weakly: he grabbed the back of Damian’s t-shirt and yanked, hard, shoving him forward “GO.”

There was an explosion of movement.

Bald Bastard lunged for Drake: Damian threw a punch to Bald Bastard’s knee, and Drake used his hold on the back of the younger boy’s t-shirt to all but throw him at the alleyway exit. Nondescript Nobody (the third thug) blocked their way, but Drake ducked expertly under his pinwheeling, outstretched arms. Damian followed, overtaking. Ha!

They were nearly clear into the main street when it all went wrong.

Monobrow Shithead, enraged by his sore loins, howled inhumanely and somehow managed to catch Drake’s ankle. The older boy’s knee slammed to the cobbles, biting clean through his lip. The boy could’ve sworn he tasted copper in the air. It’d explain the red haze that swamped his vision. 

Before he could blink, he was in front of Monobrow Shithead, the tip of his sneaker slamming into the man’s nose: over, and over, and over again. 

“Damian!” 

And again, with precision, in the dead centre of his face.

“DAMIAN! STOP.”

He was shivering. He gasped, but it fell out of his mouth more like a feral hiccough, wet and ragged. 

The stunned men took advantage of their reprieve and staggered to their feet, retreating: Bald Bastard spat viciously “(i)This isn’t over, you little fucks!(i)”

The boy stood stock still, looking down. The pristine white of his sneakers were covered in specks and globules of blood, still shining and damp. He was shaking. From rage, from shock, he just - he didn’t know. He couldn’t feel anything, couldn’t see beyond that scarlet wall. 

“Hey.” 

Cool fingers cupped his face. The boy swallowed a flinch “Damian. Hey. You okay?”

“They were going to take Father’s WATCH.” the boy burst out, the space between his ribs aching.

The older boy pinched the bridge of his nose, clearly restraining himself from shouting. Damian waited. 

Eventually, Drake sighed, palms dropping to the younger boy’s shoulders “I know, buddy.” his face twisted, conflicted “And I know it hurts like Hell and you didn’t want them to, but…” he trailed off “Fuck, I don’t know.”

Impact. So many impacts. Father’s fist against Drake’s jaw, and his toes smashing up against the saturated leather of his sneakers as they collided, again and again, with the man’s face. Blows, blows, blows. A hailstorm of them. 

“I’m not like him.” but he was, he WAS: just like Father, and Mother, and Grandfather too “I’m not like any of them. I…”

Drake shook his shoulders firmly, grounding him, his mouth a thin, grim line “Of course you’re like them. They raised you.” the boy’s heart dropped to his feet, as did his eyes, but Drake continued “You were trying to defend us, I know. And when I told you to stop, you stopped. That’s what matters.”

The boy dragged his gaze up to meet Drake’s. His eyes were blue, pale blue. Verging on grey. He’d never really noticed that before. They were calm. 

The older boy reached into his pocket and pulled out a handkerchief (who carries a HANDKERCHIEF, God, Drake was such a nerd) and eyeballed Damian’s soiled sneakers. He swiftly and efficiently cleaned them of blood evidence, gesturing for the boy to lift first his left sole, then his right. Luckily, only his socks had caught red, so Drake rolled them down to his ankles. 

It was a strange, almost tender moment. Damian felt thoroughly embarrassed. 

“They deserved it. They’re thieves.” the boy grouched, to break the quiet, half sheepish, half furious. 

“Yeah.” Drake exhaled, and stood up from his crouch with a twin click of his knees “These guys were assholes, but some thieves steal for a whole bunch of reasons we don’t know about.” one palm remained loosely on Damian’s collar “Just. Focus on incapacitating only next time, okay?”

When the younger boy remained in brooding contemplation, Drake shook him gently, smirking “They didn’t stand a chance against you. Go easy on the poor bastards.”

Damian inflated his chest “Course they didn’t. I’m-”

He trailed off. The Son of Batman? Heir of the League of Assassins? 

Drake’s wry grin and slightly crinkled eyes ducked into view “Damian Wayne. Four feet nine inches of badass.”

“Don’t pander to my ego, Drake.” Damian deadpanned, defensive. 

“Why not? It works.” Drake shrugged “C’mon, big guy. Believe it or not, we can turn this to our advantage. We’ve got a good excuse to go to the police station, now. We can snoop on the case.”

They made their way to the central police station near San Marco plaza. Drake kept a brisk, businesslike pace, while simultaneously not drawing much attention. Damian allowed his mind to wander somewhat, considering their situation.

He hadn’t truly adjusted to the idea they were no longer in Gotham. Could their vigilante identities even operate here…?

What were the public abilities of Tim Drake and Damian Wayne? He knew he himself was a closely guarded secret. His jaw clenched, bitterly. Father had been more than a little keen to gloss over such trivial matters as his public maternity, education and early life. As far as the world was concerned, he was simply Bruce Wayne’s bastard child. 

A pity project of unknown origin. The only Wayne foisted on his Father without consent. That had always stung: Father CHOSE Grayson, Todd and Drake.

He never asked for Damian. 

“Here we are. Let me do the talking, please?” Drake said, looking down at the boy warily.

Damian only nodded. He was too tired, too preoccupied to argue. Besides, though he hated to admit it, Drake was the machiavellian of their commune. He was content to take a backseat to the older boy’s plotting and trap-laying. 

The Venetian police had patrol boat’s instead of cars, because of course they did. It was rather ridiculous, Damian thought. 

The station was swelteringly hot, the buzz of fans filling the air like a swarm of angry insects. Drake approached the front desk, quickly establishing their identity and their complaint. Luckily, the name of Wayne had penetrated the continent, and even here, the guard paled and scuttled off to fetch his superior once he understood their predicament. 

A rich, angry tourist always spelled trouble, no matter where you were in the world. 

“(i)Ah, Mr Wayne! A pleasure.(i)” the rotund but obviously physically fit chief of police emerged from his shadowy office, mopping his sodden brow. Drake took his outstretched hand and shook it firmly. 

“(i)Chief. I was hoping we could talk in your office, for privacy. If you wouldn’t mind.(i)” Drake said, with some authority to his tone. 

The chief of police nodded, looking the two of them over with a wary glance, taking in their scuffed, dusty clothes and rattled appearance. Damian snatched back a frown, instead adopting a tense stance and a childishly blank face. This man was no fool, and they were here on reconnaissance. 

They were led into an utterly cliche glass cubicle with closed blinds obscuring their view of the station. A dozen dusty filing cupboards lined the walls like drooping sentinels, and a large, lazy ceiling fan swoop-swooped above their heads.

Drake dropped himself into a creaking leather chair, and the chief leant back against his desk, folding his arms and crossing his ankles. Damian resisted an eye-roll. Typical cop. 

“(i)I’m very sorry about your...incident, mister Wayne. Are you and your little brother alright?(i)”

Damian feigned disinterest, eying the plaques and photographs on the walls as the older boy exchanged niceties and details with the borish law enforcer. 

“(i)Luckily, it wasn’t anything we couldn’t handle. Gothamites, y’know. But we’d like to file a report, we want these men caught: other victims might not be so lucky.(i)”

The boy meandered around the chief’s desk, eying his tech. An old desktop computer, but with all the necessary ports…

“(i)...actually, we’re also here to discuss the Caprotti case. He is - was, a business associate of ours, and we hear he’s been murdered. We take this sort of thing quite seriously, so-(i)”

“(i)Young man!(i)” the chief boomed; Damian ignored him “(i)Oi! Kid. Back away from the computer, now, it’s not a toy.(i)”

The youngest Wayne blinked large, seemingly uncomprehending eyes up at the policeman “...huh???”

Behind the man’s back, Damian saw Drake choke back a snort of laughter. 

“(i)Sorry boss, my little brother doesn’t speak Italian. He won’t be trouble, I promise.(i)” the older boy interjected, smoothly, diverting the chief’s attention. 

“Hrrrrrm.” he wasn’t convinced. Damn.

Damian really hadn’t wanted to resort to this...he was never going to hear the end of it. EVER.

He reached into his pocket, fingertips slipping over plastic: and tugged out the tacky Red Robin figurine he’d left there that morning. He’d been paranoid about Drake snooping amongst his things, and so had kept it, secret and hidden, on his person. So much for THAT plan. 

He set the toy on the desk, pressed a plump thumb to the button on the back. The wings snapped out with a lurid ka-CHICK!

Drake looked like he was about to pop a vein, his mouth dropped comically open, astounded. Damian swallowed a smirk, lifted the figurine’s left hand, and began making convincing ‘pew pew’ noises, and other such rot.

The chief’s lips quirked upwards, amused “(i)You Americans and your comics.(i)” he turned back to Drake.

Operation Infantile Distraction: go. 

The youngest Wayne moved his ‘playing’ to the floor, out of sight. Eyed the computer hub on the floor. It was too much to expect to be able to conduct a hack and search of the device without the owner noticing - even he wasn’t that good. But, if he could install a ghost protocol…

He wiggled his fingers inside his left sock and tugged out a slightly dank USB drive. The classics are classics for a reason, as Grayson once said. He slipped the drive into its corresponding port, and eyed the screen: it flickered, corrupted, and the virus quickly began establishing a shadow trace.

Now, they could see all that the police could. He smirked, crawling up from his crouch and trampolining the plastic toy over some filing cabinets for added effect. 

“(i)...afraid I can’t let you see the files, Mister Wayne, but I assure you we’re doing all we can. We have several leads.(i)”

The programme was complete.

Damian slipped the drive back into his sock, and rounded the desk, toppling a small tin can of chewed pens for added effect. He winced, dramatically “Oh, uhm...sorry!”

The chief’s eyebrow twitched in annoyance. Taking his cue, Drake stood, smoothing the wrinkles in his shirt with a pale hand and a winning, tired smile to match “(i)Well, thanks for your time anyway, chief. Keep us posted on the mugging.(i)”

Once they’d emerged into the scorching midday sun and lost themselves in a throng of tourists, Drake rounded on him. 

“YOU-!” he jabbed a finger just clear of Damian’s nose, cheeks split in an enormous, wild grin “Evil. Pure evil. Manipulative-” he cackled, suddenly; it was the strangest sound “That was amazing.”

The boy folded his arms, barely strangling a proud, answering grin “My talents in espionage are far superior to yours, Drake.”

“Yeah, yeah. Is that a Red Robin…?” the older boy asked, suspiciously, eyes dancing. 

Damian felt his ears fill with blood and swiftly pocketed the offending toy “It is a disposable hunk of plastic, Drake.”

“Uh-huuuuuuuuuuuh.” the older boy looked far too pleased with himself, and Damian hated it “You deserve a reward. Let’s go shopping.”

The boy protested “But the case-”

“Can wait a few hours. You needed some new clothes, yeah? We’re in ITALY, Damian, one of the great fashion capitals. And I want to look at electronics.”

Damian had never really been shopping for the sake of...browsing, before.

It was a strange concept. To see buying things as an activity in of itself - and to not have a rigid wishlist of what to purchase. To just - look at things, and if you liked them, get them. Grayson and Father had taken him shopping a few times, yes, but usually with a gift or specific item in mind. This was…

...Damian loved it.

EVERYTHING could be is. Drake made it clear that, within reason, money was no object - and so the boy didn’t hold back. Their first stop was a Designer shoe store, where Drake purchased some smart business shoes. The younger Wayne chose a new pair of blindingly white sneakers and a pair of military grade, miniature combat boots, real leather, with gleaming eyelets. 

Next, clothing.

There wasn’t much that really caught Damian’s eye: he had high standards, and knew what he liked. But he did discover an expensive pair of black jeans, some t-shirts with pleasing graphic designs, and an exquisite black and green silk jacket with scarlet stripes down the sleeves. 

“Matches your eyes.” Drake mocked, not unkindly, batting his eyelashes as he browsed more boring shirts. 

Damian shoved him, and demanded a plain, black version of the silk jacket in reparations, as well. 

They took some time browsing hats and sunglasses. Drake, milksop that he was, was already beginning to blister and burn. Damian also discovered to his glee that there was no hat on this earth that looked good on the older boy: none. Every single one. Ridiculous. 

“C’mere. Lets send a snap to Alfie.” Drake proffered his (real) phone, wearing an oversized baseball cap backwards and bright blue sunglasses. Damian grumbled, but ducked into the frame regardless. 

He shoved a finger up Drake’s left nostril at the last moment, blurring the picture, and fled, cackling wildly. 

As the day dwindled to dusk, they returned to their hotel room to dump their spoils. As they did so, they passed a very old, slightly dusty shop with a small glass display, in a neglected backstreet. Damian drew to a gradual halt, eyes wide.

It was an instrument workshop. A very ancient one, he surmised from the faded sign outside. Through the open door, he could see an old man stooped over a complex wooden device, tending to strings.

Drake stopped a few paces ahead, and cocked his head “Wanna go in?”

Damian nodded.

A small bell tinkled as they entered, and the old man looked up, squinting, adjusting his miniature round glasses. He smiled, and beckoned the youngest Wayne over.

Perplexed, the boy went. The old man reached out and took his hands gently, turning them over. He nodded to himself “(i)Violin, yes?(i)”

Damian nodded wordlessly, mouth a little open. The old man stood with a low groan, and shuffled through a small door into a room filled with neat, dusty boxes. 

“Drake, I think that’s a Stradivarius.” the boy murmured, awestruck, pointing to a beautiful instrument displayed proudly in a locked cabinet towards the back of the small shop.

“Like, a -Stradivarius-, Stradivarius? Wow.” the older boy agreed, eyes sweeping over the other models on display. 

After a few minutes, the shopkeeper returned, tugging the lid from a long, thin box with instrument and bow inside. It was made of very dark, shining wood, embossed with the maker’s name.

“(i)An Amati?(i)” Damian clarified, eyes widening: not as rare nor prized as the Stradivarius, but…

“(i)It is smaller. Lighter. Better for you. Here, try.(i)”

The youngest Wayne lifted it, held it as though about to play: hesitated, then swung the bow carefully across the strings. Incredible!

“We’ll take it.” Drake said, from above and behind him, tone light. Damian looked up at him, neck crooked at a harsh angle, frowning “You can’t buy my affection, Drake.”

The older boy shrugged one shoulder, lifting his tablet and accessing his funds “Don’t pretend it doesn’t help! Anyway, let’s call it a gift from your Dad.”

The boy’s lips lifted in a slow smile. 

After returning to their hotel room for a handful of hours, Damian grew very, very bored. Drake wasn’t to meet his business contact until late that evening, and while there were many casefiles to peruse, the boy just couldn't settle on them. He huffed and puffed and used the furniture as a miniature gym, swinging from and jumping off it.

“Okay! That’s it.” Drake exclaimed, throwing his laptop aside “We’re going out. I can’t stand your fidgeting.”

Outside, one of Venice’ notorious scooters banged and roared. Damian stretched, popping his shoulders.

“We could go for a ride.”

“On scooters?”

Damian nodded. Drake considered this for a moment: there were plenty of places to hire the death traps, and, given that they were in Italy, nobody would care that they were driving without a license. Or that the younger boy wasn’t even a teenager. 

Drake caved “Sure, why not. It’ll be nice to get out of the city for a bit.”

They located a small, decent tourist trap with scooters for hire not far from the hotel. Damian selected a sleek, black affair, Drake an extremely ugly purple one. They argued for some time about helmets, but being the Wielder of the Credit Card, Drake won. 

As the sun dipped low, the heat of the day receded: cool air whipped past their hair and bodies, bleeding tension from them. The scooter’s weren’t exactly fast, but the roar of an engine beneath his body was soothingly familiar. 

As the roads became sparser and rockier and bled into long, straight highways banked by steep, yellowing grass, Damian suddenly, fiercely missed Gotham. 

Being here...with Drake, wasn’t SO bad, though.

It took a little while for either of them to notice the roar of other engines amongst their own, drawing closer. Drake accelerated and drew up alongside him, flanking the younger boy: they both glanced over their shoulders.

Three motorbikes. There was NO doubt. 

“Damian, gun it.” Drake shouted over the grind of the gravel beneath them. 

Damian kicked his scooter into gear, teeth clenched: the engine sputtered and gasped beneath him, but obliged, the world whipping faster past his ears. But they were just SCOOTERS, and their pursuers were on bikes. He scanned the horizon, looking for a side road, a bank to mount - something-!

Beside him, Drake’s scooter suddenly emitted a loud BANG, and jolted roughly to the side. 

He’d been rammed, from behind. Shit. SHIT. 

The older boy recovered, but they were gained upon and there was no escaping it - dammit, they were WAYNE’S, Robins, there must be a-

Drake’s bike was rammed again, and this time he didn’t recover. His scooter overturned and he was thrown to the road beneath it, pinned, his helmet bouncing against the solid ground with a terrible THWACK. 

“TIM!!!”

It took a second to realise it was HIM that had screamed the older boy’s name.

Damian threw himself off his own scooter, letting it careen wildly solo into a nearby bank, and sprinted the few feet back to his brother. Drake was groaning, pushing up on his ragged palms, but conscious, blessedly, blessedly alive. 

A long, deep gash was pumping blood from his left forearm. 

The three bikes were circling like black wraiths, the faces of the men obscured by fat, shining helmets. Cowards. The largest man revved his bike menacingly, pulling a long, large metal baseball bat from the chassis of the motorbike.

There was nowhere to run to. And Drake likely COULDN’T run, yet. 

Damian stepped in front of his brother’s prone form, and lifted his fists. The three bikes revved in a cascading ROAR, a wall of sound buffeting the boy’s skin. 

At that moment, in the suspended gulp between inaction and action, an enormous, red sports car burst seemingly out of nowhere, and screeched to a halt alongside them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WELL WHO COULD THIS BE. 
> 
> Also, not kidding about the scooters. Children ride them over there. I want one.
> 
> Liked it? Comment! Your words, they sustain me.


	7. Visit the Sick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jason saves the day, kind of.
> 
> This chapter from Tim's POV.

It was the car that gave it away. 

For a volatile, undead guy, Jason could be wildly predictable: a gleaming scarlet Audi TT with a big, mean grill stretched like a mad, toothy grin. Basically, a giant version of his beloved hood. 

The driving was also a clue. Believe it or not, Jason was the safest driver in the bunch. Even when he took a harlequin turn at insane speed, his tyres spun perfectly. 

For Tim, it was the usual response to Jason arriving. An initial ‘oh, thank God.’ Followed immediately by ‘oh, no.’

The front of the car squealed to a screaming halt just shy of their three assailant’s bikes. The faceless stretch of their helmets made them look like fat, black bugs, their vehicles buzzing in a vicious chorus. 

Tim scrambled to get his palms and knees under him, wincing. He did a quick, cursory inspection: some nasty bruises and scrapes, and one long gash in his forearm - he’d live.

Now he just needed to make sure the same could be said of their guests...

The driver’s door popped open with a shove and Jason unfolded his long, broad limbs into the dwindling day “Alright, who the FUCK is messing with my physical and emotional baggage?!” his dark eyes narrowed “Both of em.”

The young detective blinked: Jason was in a SUIT. A tailored one, by the looks of it, and his hair looked like it’d seen a comb within the past three weeks. The tang of leather mixed with motor oil, copper and cologne seeped into the hot air. Huh. Looks like going legitimate had finally forced their brother to undergo a wardrobe upgrade. 

...not bad. No tie, though, thankfully, or Tim might’ve thought he was hallucinating all this. 

There was a long, heavy moment of quiet while their favourite thugs sized up the newcomer. Jason was huge, true, but he was also dressed like a businessman who got manicures. Much less intimidating than his usual gun-toting slab of sarcasm, thighs and biceps.

The ringleader cocked his leg over the bike and twirled his baseball bat menacingly. Tim let out a short, soft sigh, pushing against his knees to stand. Hoo, boy. Here we go. 

“(i)You keep out of this, motherfucker!(i)” came the muffled threat from the thug on the left. 

Jason flashed a manic line of pearly teeth, lips curling upwards “Yeah, no speako Italiano, so. I’m gonna go ahead and use universal language.” 

His dusty fingers, knuckles thick with calluses, ducked neatly to the small of his back, drew out a gun and fired, straight up: KER-RRACK. 

All three men flinched, fist’s balling, backs bowed like drooling vultures. 

Jason leant easily against the roof of the car, twirling the trigger loop of his gun around an idle finger “See, this is like rock paper scissors. Cept it’s gun, baseball bat, fist. And gun wins.” he leered, snatching the weapon back to level directly at the leader’s skull “Gun. ALWAYS. Wins.”

Cowed, their assailants threw dignity to the hot tarmac, leapt onto their rides and gunned it in the opposite direction. 

Tim exhaled, slowly. Fumbled with the clasp of his helmet and tossed it aside, dragging shaking fingers through his damp hair: shit. 

“S’what I thought.” their older brother snorted, holstering his gun and turning “No matter where you go, thugs’re always the goddamn same pieces of shit with less brain cells than a bag of chips…”

He glanced down at them, Damian stood rooted to the spot, knuckles white. Jason opened his mouth with some shit-eating comment clearly about to trip from the tongue, but hesitated. Blinked, eyes narrowing as he looked the youngest boy up and down. 

Tim followed his gaze. Oh. OH.

Damian’s shoulderblades were bent sharply outwards and his head was bowed. He was utterly rigid, but shaking. Shaking so hard Tim could’ve sworn he heard the kid’s bones rattle. The young detective couldn’t see his face, but Damian was making the horrible, half-choke-half-sob noises he always did when he Wasn’t Crying. 

Jason swung forward and, to Tim’s utter astonishment, plucked Damian clean off his feet and bundled him into his arms. 

“Aw, shit, brat. You’re at your limit, ain’t ya?” he rumbled, pushing his free hand firmly up and down the kid’s trembling spine “Mourning two Dads.”

Even more incredible, Damian let him. Still stiff as a board and face hidden by his hood and the bulk of the man’s shoulder, he balled his miniature fists, smacking at Jason’s collar half-heartedly. Jason didn’t seem to care. 

Tim hesitated, and felt suddenly...awkward. He envied this. He’d always been jealous of Dick and Jason’s EASE with everything...physical. Their impulsiveness. How even when they didn’t know exactly what to do, they still just - did something. Not overthinkers, those two.

In that way, perhaps he and Damian were a lot more similar than they thought. Maybe that’s why they’d never really got along before. 

Tim pinched a circle around his own elbow and squeezed, restricting bloodflow to the gash on his forearm, and forced his feet forward “...Damian? You hurt?”

The brat wasn’t, Tim knew. Just dusty and drained, and seemingly in some form of shock. Which was odd, given he’d been in a hell of a lot more danger and under a lot more pressure than this. Damian was like Bruce in that way, though. He’d endure and endure and then the strangest things could make him snap like a twig. 

He’d burst into tears when he’d heard about the engagement, Tim knew. Dick’d told him. He hadn’t believed it, at the time, but now - now he totally got it. 

Jason cocked his head at him with a wry, grim smile “Chucky’s fine. Just short-circuited, he’ll be back online in a sec.”

The teen peered briefly at what he could see of Damian’s puce and pale-as-powder face. The tantrum seemed to be dying down, the noises receding. Good. 

Jason cleared his throat, hefting Damian higher up his shoulder as he yanked the back car door open “You alright, Timbo?”

“Bit battered. I’ll live.”

“If you were battered, you’d taste a lot better.” Jason replied, offhand, bundling his burden into the backseat and slamming the door gently. 

Tim opened his mouth and closed it. Weird. Jason was WEIRD. How did he always forget that…?

But he was here. Something about his Largeness and Olderness inexplicably made Tim feel a little better. At least now he didn’t have to make every damn decision. He really did owe Dick an apology...he’d given their eldest brother plenty of crap in the past for poor choices, but. 

Being in charge really, actually sucked. Hard. 

Tim hurried over to the shotgun seat and slid gratefully inside, taking a moment to mourn the flawless leather that he was about to ruin with his filthy butt. Ah, well. Jason had money now, he could afford a valeting. 

He glanced behind him to check on Damian. The brat had brought his knees to his chest, a tight ball of tension. His cheeks were damp and his eyes were bloody, but he seemed - calmer. Tim reached to grab the seatbelt, buckling the kid wordlessly in. Damian let him without complaint, shifting his legs for a moment to give Tim access, before curling up again. 

Jason snorted, disbelieving “Jesus fucking…”

“You too, Jason. Belt.” Tim snapped. He was In No Mood. 

Cowed, the older man grumbled and obeyed, firing up the engine with a subtle roar “When did you turn into Dickhead 2.0?!”

Tim slid down in his seat, letting his eyes fall closed for a long moment “Three days ago. Thanks for asking.” 

Custody does that to a guy, apparently. 

“....huh.”

There was a long, oddly peaceful stretch of quiet as Jason navigated back on their tail towards the city. The older man popped a compartment open, revealing a comprehensive first aid kit. Tim murmured a thanks and began rifling through it, popping an aspirin for starters before moving on to disinfectant.

The gash would need a few stitches. He’d ask Damian when they got back to the hotel, if the kid was up to it. He really was the best medic they had. 

“You look nice.” Tim shot at Jason after awhile, smirking.

Jason stuck his broad chin in the air “Y’know, although you’re shit-talkin’ me, I’m taking the compliment. So there.” he tapped agitated fingers on the dash, eyebrows dipping suddenly as he scowled at the grey horizon “Alright Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dumbass. Care to explain just what the fuck you think you’re doing out here?”

Uhhhhh, Tim thought. Not really? He played for time “First things first, where have YOU been?”

Last he heard, Jason had finished running riot with Kory and Roy and had announced himself back into the public sphere. Then disappeared. 

“Around.” Jason grunted, vaguely. 

“...around.”

“Yeah, around. Like. The continent.”

“As in Europe.”

“Yup.”

Tim’s left eyebrow hit his hairline “Doing what, exactly?”

Jason snatched a half-full cup of Starbucks from the dash and inhaled sharply, ice rattling against plastic. Tim pined for coffee “What’re you, the ethics committee? Quit prying, Mister Mensa.”

The younger boy sighed, rested his chin on his uninjured hand and glanced out of the blacked-out window “...fair enough. I’ve not exactly been kosher lately either.”

Jason smirked “Yeah, noticed somebody else’d been draining Daddy Dearest’s Dough lately.”

Tim’s lips twitched bitterly “Call it reparations. How’s being alive, again? Well, legally anyway.”

Yep, this was his reality. Asking his undead adopted brother how his crime racket was going, while his OTHER undead adopted brother sulked in the backseat. Tim probably could’ve made better choices. 

“Pretty sweet. Ain’t gotta creep across borders anymore.” Jason frowned, and tugged at his starched collar “Me and Brucie had a bit of an altercation about it.”

Tim’s head snapped around “...oh?”

“More or less ended like YOUR little altercation did. Cept I didn’t end up flat on my ass.”

“Probably because you’re too heavy.” the teen sniped back, because he didn’t really want to think about Bruce beating on Jason, too. Not right now. 

“OI! My body is a temple!”

“Yeah, you’re thicc and thick to go along with it.” 

“Rude. Imma toss you to the tarmac, you little shite.”

“No you won’t.” Tim muttered. Then “Damian didn’t want to live with Bruce anymore.”

There was a long, cool silence. 

“....because?” Jason ventured, a crinkle deepening the tan skin between his eyes. They were fixed, very intently, on the road ahead. 

“You know why.” Tim replied, flatly. The older man had been there, after all. 

“...ah. So that’s what finally broke the camel’s back, huh.” Jason replied, preoccupied. Yeah, Tim thought. He wanted to say he’d been surprised by Damian’s choice, too, but the kid was probably still listening. 

“And he couldn’t go to Dickwad, so he came to you.” the older man concluded, and briefly rounded on said kid in the backseat “Hey, brat, I’m offended. What’s wrong with me!?”

What’s RIGHT with you, Tim thought, without charity. Jason had a heart of pure gold, he did, but he wasn’t exactly reliable. Or sane, all of the time. 

“Okay, flip the bird if you’re still alive.” Jason shot at Damian, exasperated: Tim was somewhat relieved when the kid did just that “Attaboy. And yeah, guess you did stab me in the thigh by way of a greeting last time we met, so. Guess I got my answer.”

...wait “He WHAT?”

Jason shrugged “It’s okay, I got better. I think he was just kinda lonely and wanted to get my attention.”

This goddamn family...Tim took his turn to round on their youngest. He had a headache coming on “Damian, I can’t believe I have to say this, but please stop stabbing Jason when you want his attention.”

“Hey - don’t knock it, it works.”

“YOU” Tim jabbed an accusatory finger in Jason’s general direction “Are NOT helping.”

“Not trying to.”

Tim really, REALLY owed Dick an apology. Maybe a fruit basket. 

They spent the rest of the journey in sombre silence, like they were at their own wake. It wasn’t uncomfortable, exactly, just - strange. They were a mismatch, the three of them. The pariah, the good son, the reformed villain. It all felt terribly off-balance without Dick there to referee them. 

At least he and Damian were sort of okay, now. Tim hoped Jason showing up wouldn’t - jeopardize that, in some way. 

It was morbidly interesting, how the kid had suddenly leapt back into his defensive shell as soon as somebody else invaded their fragile truce. Weird, being on the other side of it - being the one Damian had trusted, not the intruder, for once. He hadn’t realised how much the brat had relaxed with Tim, until he stopped. 

They parked a little way away from the hotel in a multi-storey for millionaires, as the streets and rivers were too narrow to accommodate the Hoodmobile. They kept to the backstreets, Jason and Damian wordlessly flanking Tim - the a) most injured and b) most suspicious-looking (although that one was relative). 

They snuck back into the hotel via the fire escape, Jason flashing a few startled guests a winning smile and a wink as they slid past them out of the elevator. 

Tim finally let the last of the tension leave his body as they slipped into their hotel room, the sight of freshly laundered sheets and twin innocent candies sat on the flawless pillows a welcome balm. Their shopping from what felt like years ago was stacked neatly in the corner, the balcony window open to let a languid Summer breeze tug at the gossamer curtains. 

Jason gave the room a cursory glance, nodded in approval, and tossed the first aid kit into Damian’s startled arms “You up to it, kid? Don’t want your tiny pudgy hands to slip and Timmers here to lose a limb.”

The brat only scowled at the older man, and hopped onto Tim’s bed, tearing the plastic case open with a wrench, retrieving needle and thread. Tim sat gingerly next to him, rolling up his sleeve with a wince. The kid probed the wound with too-small, careful hands, before disinfecting it again and beginning to loop quick, sure stitches through the wound. 

Tim winced and glanced away: the pain was fine, but the sight was still a little gross. Jason dumped his own duffel on the coffee table and threw the balcony doors wide open, admiring the view. 

The young detective glanced down at his brother's bent head, and gently swiped some gravel from the kid’s shoulders with his free hand. On impulse, he slid an arm across the brat’s back and tugged him close, pushing Damian’s hot forehead against his neck “I’m okay, Damian.” he said, firmly “We’re okay. Promise.”

The boy squirmed and grumbled, but didn’t pull away. Tim patted his back and prodded him towards the bathroom “Go grab a shower, it’ll help. Trust me.”

Damian retreated gratefully without a word, slamming the bathroom door shut tight behind him. 

Jason whistled lowly, throwing his broad form into an armchair “Holy shit, Timbo, this is a hot mess. And not inna good way.”

The younger boy exhaled slowly, stretching his elbow back and forth: it was cramping “Yeah. It’s pretty bad.” he glanced over as the water in the bathroom began to run “He keeps lashing out. Worse than usual. Or shutting down, like…”

That scared Tim more, to be honest. Damian angry and scrapping, that was normal. Damian...like he’d been today...was just awful. It hurt. It felt like failure. 

Jason shrugged, kicking his shoes off with a soft thunk-thunk “I wouldn’t worry too much bout that. I do that, too. Sometimes it’s good to just STOP.”

The young detective nodded, then shuffled forward to the edge of the bed, and put his head in his hands, counting down from ten “I’m so TOTALLY not qualified for this.”

There was a soft impact on his head: Jason had thrown a sugar packet at him from the minibar “Eh, you’ve been there for him. You’re worrying. You tried. That’s a lot more than Big Bad Bat managed recently.”

“That’s just depressing.”

“Yeah, it is.”

The younger boy glanced up “Jason…” he hesitated, then smiled, tiredly “Thanks.”

For coming. Tim meant it. But he didn’t say any of that. 

“Don’t make it weird, Ravenclaw.” Jason huffed, twin flags of colour highlighting his tan cheeks. 

“Whatever.” Tim snorted, then frowned, rubbing his thighs “We should talk. The three of us.”

Jason groaned deeply, and dragged himself out of the chair “Well, if that’s how you’re gonna be, we’re gonna need pizza.”

“Fuck, yes.” Tim replied, stomach suddenly howling at him “I mean: frick yes.” 

The older man shot him a judgemental look, but Tim ignored him. The teen lapped up the reprieve and wiped what filth he could from himself and changed, while Jason ordered a disgusting amount of food from room service. 

The bathroom door opened with a businesslike click, and the youngest of them emerged, a towel over his head, dripping fat, sad droplets onto the expensive carpet. He’d changed into Dick’s old Gotham Grizzlies shirt. Nobody mentioned it. 

“Better?” Tim asked, forcing a thin smile. The kid seemed to be ignoring them, just stood still. Embarrassed, perhaps.

“Damian, say something.” Tim insisted, barely resisting the urge to add a concerned ‘please.’ 

The brat huffed, gathering the tattered rags of himself back together valiantly “...I’m fine. Stop your Mother Henning, Drake, it’s obscene.”

“There he is! That’s our beloved Danger Things.” Jason hollered cheerfully. 

“Tt. Topical cultural references won’t reverse the onset of age, Todd.” Damian snapped back, and Tim breathed a sigh of relief. 

“Burn.” the man quipped, unoffended. There was a soft knock at the door “Oh, that’s our pizza.”

It was strange, but full bellies somehow did make everything seem that bit more manageable. Damian devoured three vegetarian pizzas like he’d been abandoned on an island for weeks, while Jason picked at his with surprising delicacy and popped open an overpriced beer from the mini-bar. 

Tim let the tang of pepperoni soothe his soul, and whipped up three espressos from the coffee machine. 

In the fugue of a cheese-coma, Jason broke the quiet “So. Talking and shit.”

“...yeah. Because we’re great at that.” Tim deadpanned, awkwardly.

Silence. 

“I have a question.” Damian said, bluntly, startling the older two. 

Jason blinked “Shoot, short stack. Though not literally.”

“Jason.” Tim said, warningly, scowling. 

“Yeah, yeah. Sorry, I ramble when shit gets too real.”

Damian looked between them, clasping and unclasping his fingers from one another, before settling them in his lap “...Father…” he swallowed, gaze dropping to his bed “He’s hit you before.”

This was directed to Jason. Tim felt that old numb static fill his head, a whitenoise of thoughts and feelings. The man tossed back his beer and grunted, grabbing a new one from the fridge. 

“Yeah, kid. He has. More than once. A lot more than once. After I died and came back, but. Semantics.” Jason said, with the blunt honesty of a 200 tonne truck hitting a bridge. 

Damian licked his lips and muttered “In what context?”

“Quite a few.”

The brat’s head snapped up, eyes wide and very green “...but that’s not right.”

“10/10 for the munchkin in the Blue Corner.” Jason replied with a sour grin. Tim kicked him in the shin (ironically) “Ow!”

“...has he hit Grayson?” the kid hurried on. The thin thread of hope in his eyes damn near killed Tim for a second. 

“He has.” the teen replied, softly, cutting Jason off. 

“But why-!” Damian shot to his feet, his bare toes curling against the carpet like a dozen shrinking rodents “Grayson wouldn’t stand for that!”

Tim rubbed his temples “It’s...pretty complicated, Dames.”

Fuck, shit, he wasn’t EXCUSING anything, it’s just, it was damn complicated. How did they even begin to unpick this…?

“Thing is,” Jason interjected, steepling his fingers like a supervillain “We all pretty much hit things for a living, right? And we’re all completely and totally fucked in the head, so when we get mad at eachother, we wanna fight. Right?”

Damian nodded, slowly, digesting this. Tim blinked. That was...surprisingly accurate, yeah. 

“So: that’s what happens, sometimes.” Jason concluded, succinctly, as though that settled the matter. 

Damian’s scowl ran so deep Tim was worried it’d leave a scar “But…when Father struck Drake, it wasn’t a fight.” he glanced awkwardly over at the older boy, lost “You were just trying to help.”

“Yeah.” Jason replied, when Tim came up empty “He’s done that to Dickiebird a few times. It’s like a defence thing...I think? When he’s feeling raw and sore and wants you to go away.”

The kid deflated, plopping back on his bed and curling around himself “But Grayson taught me that wasn’t how to behave.” then, very quietly “Father, too.”

Jason belched gently: more honest than flippant “Right on. They’re big fat hypocrites. Sorry to break it to ya, baby.”

Then Damian asked the million dollar question “Why has nobody told him to stop it?”

It sounded so horribly simple, from the mouth of a twelve-year-old. 

“That’s on all of us, I think.” Tim said, hauling himself to his feet and sitting beside the kid at a comfortable distance “It’s hard to see the woods from the trees, sometimes. We should’ve noticed when Bruce was...falling too far.”

That was the thing about descents, they always started off gradually. Then: freefall. Maybe that’s where they were now. 

Jason muttered to himself and dragged a pack of smokes from his pocket and a lighter. Tim eyed the smoke alarm, but figured they’d be alright with the balcony doors thrown wide. He decided to let it slide, this time.

“Listen, short stack.” Jason mumbled round an inhale “My Pops used to trash me up on a daily, when he was around, and Ma was a mess. So, I admit, m’not the best when it comes to drawing the line with...this stuff.”

True, Tim thought, on paper Jason was the most violent of them all. But now that he thought about it, he’d never seen Jason START a fight with any of them. Except perhaps Dick...

“Speaking of which.” Tim said, tone turning sober “Damian and I agreed never to fight one another again. I want you to do the same.”

Jason shrugged “Sure. Fine. Long as babybat here doesn’t start nothin’.”

“Damian?”

“I have no appetite for it anymore.”

“Good.” the teen nodded “At least that’s settled.”

“...what were your parents like, Drake?” Damian asked, thoroughly miserable now. 

Taken aback, the older boy opened his mouth, then closed it again “....that…they…”

Jason rescued him “Timbo’s Dad was a mean drunk with issues. Not a totally bad guy, but they never are. Think he threw bottles at your head, right?”

Tim could only nod, and stare at the fascinating pattern on the wallpaper across the room with sudden interest. He didn’t want to think about Jack right now. Or ever, really, unhealthy though that was. 

“I don’t feel I need to comment on my formative years.” Damian stated, drly, folding his arms. 

“Assassin School, yeah, we gotcha.”

Tim inhaled sharply “Did Ras or Talia ever hurt you, Damian?”

It was important. Of course, they’d all assumed, but had anybody ever bothered to...to really find out what Damian had come from? 

The kid lowered his eyes, bare feet swinging back and forth between the beds, agitated “Mother has never struck me directly: but she has instructed my mentors to.” he trailed off “Grandfather…”

Oh, God. 

“He did, didn’t he.” Jason snarled, viciously, crumpling the embers of his cigarette in his palm in what must’ve been a painful burn “Fuck. SHIT.” he shot to his feet, made an abortive step towards the door, dragging his palm across his face “FUCK. Gonna kill him-”

“Later, Jase.” Tim soothed, firmly. That wasn’t going to help right now. 

The older man took a few minutes to mutter and threaten the furniture, kicking the TV stand and stubbing his toe. The younger two watched him like polite, attentive concert-goers, and rode out the storm wordlessly. 

“Let’s talk shop:” Jason concluded, rounding on them “Do either of you wanna go back to Gotham yet?”

Tim shook his head, glancing down at Damian. The kid mirrored him. 

“Me neither. I kinda like it here.” Jason postulated, lighting up again and throwing himself back against Tim’s headboard, the mattress bouncing “You planning on fighting Bruce for custody?”

And wasn’t THAT a loaded question. Tim winced “I didn’t think it would come to that. I really don’t want to. I can’t be Damian’s legal guardian anyway, I’m too young. I’m still a ward myself.”

Jason considered this for a moment “He been in touch?”

“No.”

“Jackass.” the man muttered, unsurprised “Well, worst case scenario, I can take the brat. But I don’t think we need to worry bout it. Brucie’s in a sulk. His head ain’t even on us right now.”

Damian flinched, clearly hurt. Tim squeezed his shoulder sympathetically “What about the public? We’ve had Vicki Vale on our tail. Damian’s not in school.”

Not like the boy needed to be by any stretch of the imagination, but try telling the law that. Throwing money at the problem would only go so far. 

Jason shrugged “Just fabricate tutors and say you’re taking a year out. Pay off anybody who disagrees.” he smirked “And reply to any questions about estrangement with ‘no comment.’”

‘Estranged.’ Is that what they were, they and Bruce? Tim supposed so. It sounded so...clinical. 

“That’s a plan.” the teen nodded, slowly, sharing a wary glance with Damian “That’ll work.” 

It had to. He didn’t know what they were going to do, if it didn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so the two become three!!! Enjoy my work? Drop me a comment, it's motivational ;)


	8. David & Goliath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jason is tol, Damian is smol, and Tim has had enough of it ol.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a) WOW, what an incredible response to the last chapter! Thank you so much, my darlings, your comments mean the world to me. I love hearing how you're all enjoying the story. Keep em coming!
> 
> b) WARNING: in this chapter there are insinuations/references to child sexual exploitation and abuse. It's very mild, but I'd still advise anyone who may be triggered by this to please consider skipping.

Bzzzzzzzzzt! ('Bring Me to Life' by Evanescence plays)

Todd’s cellphone rang rudely into the stony silence, startling he and Timothy. But definitely NOT Damian (his pounding heart notwithstanding).

The youngest boy knew that their resident ‘rebel’ had a plethora of playlists: he’d hacked into the man’s cellphone and other tech more than once. For his sins, Damian had found the collection paltry and baffling. Especially one particular list labelled ‘annoy bruce >:-) ’: (sic)

Bombs Away  
Don’t fear the reaper  
Somebody got murdered  
Let the bodies hit the floor  
Another one bites the dust  
Knockin’ on Heaven’s door  
Smooth criminal  
Sorry not sorry  
Let it go  
What does the Fox say?!

...amongst others. Once, the playlist and been hard-coded to play on loop in the cave for all of the 50 minutes it took for Father to disable it. It had felt longer. 

Todd retrieved the rumbling device from his pocket (Damian sneered: a flip-phone, seriously?) and snapped it open with a soft pop of plastic “You’ve reached the vigilante hotline, 101-HIRE-A-HOT-HIT-666, what can I do ya for?”

Timothy rolled his eyes so hard that the younger boy expected to hear the sound of his eyeballs hitting the back of his innermost skull. He scowled at the buffoon. 

Todd glanced down at them, nonchalant “It’s Alfie. Hi, Gramps.” a polite, ominously clipped voice answered into the man’s ear, somewhat obscured “Yeah, actually I’m with em. Yup. All limbs and vital organs accounted for. Cept Timmy's balls, they’re still persona non grata.” 

Timothy bristled “What did I ever-”

...also: Todd knew Latin? 

The older man nodded absently, slipping his free hand casually into his pocket. His expression and posture seemed at primitive ease, but he was still somehow inscrutable. Todd was much harder to read than he appeared at face value “Sure thing. One sec.”

Todd abruptly tossed his caveman device into Timothy’s lap. Damian, sat beside the older boy on his bed, folded his feet beneath his knees, feeling strangely agitated. Like there were beetles crawling beneath his skin. 

Timothy took a brief HUFF of breath, steeling himself “Hi, Alfred.”

“Master Tim, would you care to explain why both yours and Master Damian’s mobile phones have been going to voicemail?!” a terse and entirely unamused voice snapped back from the depths of Gotham’s black, swirling maw. 

Closer now, it was easily loud enough for Damian to appreciate the full force of its power. 

Jason and Damian, for once, winced in sympathetic unison. Pennyworth’s wrath was certainly to be avoided, at all costs: Damian had seen little of it, but he’d heard STORIES. Many of them involved a blend of sharp, tortuous devices and a devastating ‘I am very disappointed in you.’ Perhaps even confinement to one’s room and restriction of rations. 

“Oh, man.” the older boy scrubbed at the back of his head, leaving it sticking up in sheepish tufts “I’m really sorry, we’ve had a uhm...interesting day. Damian’s cell actually got stolen, so…”

The boy harrumphed: he was still sore about that. 

“Stolen.” the butler deadpanned; they could hear his eyes narrowing “Care to elaborate?”

“Hope you’ve got a decent funeral plan with monthly payments in th’works, Timderella.” Todd muttered, utterly unhelpfully. 

Timothy coolly lifted his middle finger at the older man, otherwise ignoring the jibe “We sort of possibly, perhaps, MAYBE got a little mugged. But we’re fine, honestly. We’ll get the gremlin a new cell tomorrow, and I’ll text you the number.”

This was news to Damian. In truth, he mostly missed the device for it’s qualities as a music player and internet browser. After all: he had nobody else he had an urgent need to speak with, bar present company.

...oh. 

The thought of the Titans made him shrink, a little. They belonged to that strange world of Before. It was lit in psychedelic colours in the boy’s mind. Like a kaleidoscope he didn’t want to peer through. 

A cold sensation settled over his heart as he realised all his un-deleted conversations with Jonathon would now be lost to the ether. Not that they mattered, of course. Fanciful thinking, really. He was - he was going to dispose of them. They were just digits, lines of letters, weaving nothing of import together. 

“Well thank God you are all alright. And together.” Pennyworth intoned, sighing. He sounded somehow even wearier than he had when they’d left “How is master Damian?”

Timothy glanced down at him, lips downturned: unsure how to answer the question. Damian felt the same “Wanna talk to him?” 

The boy’s heart leapt in his chest, a spike of panic lancing in his brain: Pennyworth was also of that strange beforetime, his parables in monochrome, not rainbows. He wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to be reminded of it. He resisted the urge to bolt. It was comfortable, here, in this room, barricaded inside with their shopping and their toiletries, and Todd’s litter. 

Timothy was frowning, his open palm outstretched “Dames. Alfie wants to talk to you.”

Gathering his courage, the boy stabbed his toes into the soft give of the carpet and mumbled an unconvincing “Hello, Pennyworth.” 

The manservant exhaled, tension trickling away at the sound of his voice “Master Damian. Are you well?”

The youngest Wayne brought his knees to his chest and settled his chin on them, squeezing his eyes tight shut for a moment. This was - okay. It was only Pennyworth. Pennyworth, with his meticulous, caring hands chasing lint, and the smell of aniseed and fresh cut grass and smoky teas. 

He missed the man. He’d been afraid of that. 

“Yes, I’m well. Apart from the local riff raff, I’m enjoying Italy.” he glanced up: surprising himself with the knowledge that, yes. This was true.

Timothy had busied himself with his tablet and the cappuccino machine, and was boldly sniping back and forth with Todd by the television. The boy stared at his feet, clicking the miniature bones in his toes up and down.

Damian lowered his voice a little, lips quirking “Drake purchased an Amati violin for me. I will send you a recording when I test it out properly…”

A gentle clatter of china and pans in the background: the butler’s voice grew warm like a sultry dollop of honey in hot water “You’re pursuing your music again? That’s wonderful, my boy. It’s good to keep up some form of study, even given...given the circumstances.” Pennyworth paused “How is Master Tim, truly?”

Multiple people seemed to think Timothy incapable of taking care of himself. Damian, eying what must be the sixteenth cup of acrid brown liquid in the older boy’s hand, was beginning to agree with them.

“I am ensuring Timothy doesn’t kill himself.” he replied, dryly, dropping said boy a smirk when he scowled at Damian “He is fed and watered. Never well rested, but that seems an impossibility given his obscene caffeine intake.”

“Wait a sec, just who is babysitting who here?!”

The boy ignored him “...how are Goliath and Titus and Pennyworth and Batcow and Jeremy?” 

“Who th'FUCK is Jeremy???”

“Damian’s pet turkey.”

“Ah, Thanksgiving roast! Got your pre-order walkin’ and warblin’, huh?”

“Jason!” thunk. 

“OW!”

“They are all very well kept, but pining for their little master.” the boy felt a stab of guilt at the thought of Titus moping and maundering, as he often did, about the house when left alone “I am using them as therapeutic animals at the local children’s home, to keep them occupied.”

Damian hesitated.

Somebody had to ask. Of course, it would have to be him. He licked his chapped lips, and dug the ragged skin at the nub of thumbnail-bed against his incisor “Pennyworth...is Father...?”

Silence. From outside came the subtle melody of chinking glasses and muted laughter, the hollering of delivery boys in the cooling streets. 

There was a high whistle at the other end of the line, a building crescendo. Pennyworth was boiling water “...your Father is…” 

There a CLICK, hisssssss as the boil came to fruition “As he was, I’m afraid. Perhaps worse. He has been burying himself in his work rather than confront his feelings on our...situation.”

“...I see.” the boy hopped to his feet and began to pace, cheeks and ears filling with blood, the angel hair at his temples and nape curling at the heat “And Grayson?”

THAT, he had not even meant to ask. It just. Fell out of his mouth like a cuss. Timothy and Todd had gone deathly quiet, twin sets of eyes fixed on the back of the boy’s neck. 

The butler uttered a soft sigh, delivering his reply as though speaking to the recently bereaved: soft, dulcet tones “I’m so sorry, my dear boy, there’s been no miracle. I hear he’s looking into rejoining the Gotham PD.”

The boy heard the high scream of something boiling over, again, but this time, it came from inside his own skull. 

Wordlessly, he pressed the fliphone back into Timothy’s hands, and marched to the balcony doors, kicking them wide furiously. He felt the older two’s eyes turn away only once they were assured he wasn’t going to vault over the rail and disappear. Instead, he simply stood, gripping the metal with white-knuckled fists, panting, as though winded. 

He would NOT cry. He HATED GRAYSON. He did! No, he didn’t. Of course he didn’t, he couldn’t. But sometimes, he wished he could erase him-

A cold breeze caught the tip of his nose. Perhaps that was what Grayson had done to them. Perhaps...he did not really WANT to remember. 

“Me again, Alf.” Timothy murmured, quite close behind him, at the balcony door: Damian heard the creak of the older boy leaning against the beams. 

Within grabbing distance. 

“The young master is quite upset.” Pennyworth’s tinny, barely audible voice stated, aghast. 

A pale hand slid around his shoulder, settled on his collar and squeezed: it helped, barely, but it did help “Yeah, he is. But he’s got us. He’s gonna be okay.” 

Timothy’s gaze was fixed firmly on the building’s opposite. Damian released his death grip on the metal bars, flexing his bruised fingers, the brittle skin filling once again with red. 

“I believe so, too. You’re doing a marvellous job, master Tim. I’m very proud of you.”

Damian felt, rather than saw the older boy glow, just for a moment. 

“I must go. The chesterfield won’t vacuum itself.” Pennyworth signed off, with fond firmness, reassured “Ensure you CALL from now on, young man.”

“I will! Promise!”

“And tell master Jason to cut his hair, he looks like a rentboy fallen on hard times.”

Todd choked on his third beer, sputtering. 

“...savage.” Timothy commented, accurately “Love you, Alf. Talk soon.” 

The older boy turned, addressing Todd “Alfred thinks you should shave your head.”

The man snorted then belched gently, loosening his collar and grappling with his duffel bag “What, the ole ‘Ric’? No thanks, I’d NEED my brains blown out to adopt that look.” he drew out his classic jacket, slipping it on over his tailored shirt like an old glove “Then again, Disco-cowl was pre-op…”

A prim alarm sounded abruptly on Timothy’s Smart Watch, right beside Damian’s ear. The boy snarled, fingers snatching, and nearly broke the older boy’s wrist out of sheer instinct. 

Timothy hisses, patting Damian’s knuckles gently to soothe him “Shhhhhh-ugar. I completely forgot about the Caprotti meeting.” he shut off the alarm “I need to go interview the dead man’s son about his Father’s murder. Lucky me.”

...in all the chaos, the boy had clean forgotten The Case. Poor form. His Mother would’ve been highly critical. 

Todd stretched hugely with a wince, his broad form filling the balcony doorway as he ambled over “Lucky you. Dumpin’ short-stack here on me, then? I charge by the hour.”

The boy bristled, stung. He was not- not some BAGGAGE to be picked up and deposited as those around him chose. Although, it certainly felt that way, lately. 

“I’ll bet you do.” Timothy smirked, gesturing to the older man’s haircut in an obvious reference to Pennyworth’s ‘rentboy’ jibe. Damian was beginning to wonder if his precocious older sibling’s sexual exploits were exaggerated, after all. 

The middle boy tutted “And I’m not DUMPING anybody on anybody. It’s just this man isn’t likely to open up with a minor milling about in the background.” he threw a proud smirk Damian’s way as he checked himself over in the mirror, tugging at his cuffs to hide his scuffs and lacerations “Even if they’re armed with plastic.”

Damian flushed scarlet and grumbled, subtly checking for the toy in his pocket. Undamaged by their little escapade, fortunately. 

“...I smell a story.” Todd said, astutely. 

“No comment.” Timothy replied, loyally. 

“Oh, I’ll find out. I got my ways.”

The boy stuck his tongue out at the hulk of a man “That you charge by the hour for, Todd, you whore.”

Todd faux-gasped, scandalised, and swooped upon Damian, grappling with him “Filth and slander! Timothy, render unto me the SOAP!”

“GAH! Unhand me, you brute!”

“GUYS.” Timothy snapped, irritated, having teleported to the hotel door “I seriously gotta go. If the two of you kill eachother, I’ll-” he struggled for a moment, dumbly, then brandished a Hershey’s bar at them menacingly “I’ll chop off your favourite limb BEFORE dunking you in the Lazarus Pit!”

Todd paled “Nooooo! My Super Happy Jason Funtime Hand!”

Damian threw an accusatory, pointed finger back at the brandished chocolate “HA! An idle threat, Timothy, you don’t have maiming in you!”

“Give me 48 hours with you two and that may well change.” the middle boy muttered, darkly “I’ll be back by midnight-ish, interrogation willing. Jason, you’re in charge. God help us all.” 

He hesitated before he closed the door, and shot the younger boy a genuine, half-cocked smile. Damian blinked. 

CLICK. 

Todd huffed, folding his bearlike arms in protest “He seriously left us.”

“A common thread in my existence of late.” the boy muttered, lacing and unlacing his fingers, gaze fiercely attempting to burn a hole through the carpet. He envied Jonathon’s lazer vision. 

“Dang, batling, that’s dark.” Todd returned, lamely. 

“And true.” the boy drew himself up: it was time to take CONTROL, lay the boundaries in solid concrete with this brute of a man “It seems we must now coexist. I will endeavour not to encroach on your…” his lips curled upwards “Existence. If you are respectful of mine.”

Todd scratched at his belly, infuriatingly unaffected “No can do. M’not staying one sec in this crummy suite cooped up with you; we seriously will both die.” he extended a paw and grabbed the boy by the wrist, tugging insistently but without pain “C’mon.”

“Where are we going?” Damian stumbled inevitably after the man’s longer stride, growling. He figured it would be a useless endeavour to dig his heels in. Besides, now Timothy had banned violence, his usual ‘blade to the meaty thigh’ get-out clause had been squashed. 

“Out.” 

“I have no desire to leave.”

“You will, once you see where we’re going.”

Pouring out into the corridor, the boy blinked, curiosity piqued “Which is?”

“A surprise.” Todd waggled his thick eyebrows, dark eyes shining with mirth, and jabbed the elevator button to the ground floor “C’mooooon. See it like a challenge. You figure out where it is before we get there, you win.”

...a challenge. A mission. Damian NEVER backed away from a mission, but first: the terms “Win what?”

“Bragging rights?”

“I’ll need material gain, thank you.”

Todd cackled, impressed “Ahhh, you’re learning.” he hummed, weaving them expertly through the crowd in the foyer “10 bucks.”

The boy snorted derisively “Surely, you jest.”

Todd smirked as they burst into the close gloom of the twilit street “10 bucks and my Nakiri switchblade.”

Saliva pooled in the boy’s mouth. Nakiri’s were LEGENDARY, even Grandfather would not pass on an opportunity to own one. How on earth had Todd, of all people, procured it…? Likely through the Black Market. It was startling how many...criminal connections...his supposed crime fighting family had.

He really should follow up on his suspicions of Timothy’s dealings. He was - perhaps - a little concerned. 

“You’re on, Todd.” he agreed, and snatched his wrist easily free, hurrying to fall into step beside the man. 

They meandered through piazza’s and across bridges in silence, jostling bright eyed newlyweds and cackling tourists and locals alike. Damian sniffed, derisively. He much preferred the rooftops, away from the crowds. But, still. With the distant music and the heady scent of flowers in the air, and the lap of the water by their feet, it was...peaceful. 

“So, whaddya think of the city of LOVE, Dimmikins?” Todd said cheerfully, ruining said peace. 

“Lovely.” the boy replied, only part sarcastic. He watched beadily as the man fumbled in his pocket and withdrew a crumpled pack of cigarettes, the emerald and gold package shining like a plastic diadem “Those are bad for you.”

“I’m aware.” Todd garbled around the filter, snapping his lighter.

Damian pushed off one foot, snatching lighter and cigarettes in one fell swoop, and dumped them into the water with a muffled KER-PLOP.

Todd leaned down, fists working, glowering. His teeth were huge and pearly and VERY straight. Damian held his ground “Now you’re just being a spiteful lil shite!”

The boy folded his arms, pushing the tip of his nose to Todd’s burly one “No, I simply have little desire for myself or those around me to die of lung cancer prematurely.”

...that...wasn’t exactly what he had MEANT to say. True, he hated the sight and smell of cigarettes, but he hated them in Todd’s mouth more. Confusing...

Uh-oh. Todd was smirking, not good, not good, ABORT MISSION- “Diddums, you CARE! My heart! C’mere.”

“Ack!” The boy expertly dodged the man’s half hearted dive, and Todd grinned, righting himself easily. 

“...So; any guesses, genius?”

As to where they were headed? Damian hummed “...a venue of ill repute.”

“Nope. And too vague.”

“A bar.”

“Nuh-uh.”

“A gambling den?”

“Nerp.”

“...a warehouse dock.”

“No.”

“The jail.”

“Niet!”

Now Todd knew RUSSIAN?!

“The-” quite suddenly, a gleaming, brightly lit stone building loomed large above them. It had smooth flagstones outside and proud banners pouring out colour against the inky black sky, like warrior banners. 

Damian stopped still, mouth falling open “The. Art Gallery…?”

A nearby poster flapped, settling like flustered gossamer against the reassuring stone. It’s lettering smoothed. In bold, proud cursive it said: ‘(i)An unprecedented spectacle! The largest exhibit of Carravaggio’s work, ever!(i)’

“...oh.” Damian said, for lack of much else to say. 

Todd’s heels scuffed on the smooth stone as he came to stand beside him “Saw ya eyeballing a few posters earlier. You like his stuff, huh?”

The boy nodded dumbly, fingers twitching, tentative excitement filling his head. Many pieces were surely far too large to ship here, but-! “He is one of my favourites.”

“Here.”

Not looking at him, Todd wordlessly handed over Damian’s sketchbook and smallest pack of pencil and charcoal. The boy snatched them, embarrassed. Didn’t bother to divine where the man had got them from. 

Eager, Damian bounded over the threshold into the too-bright lights. A shadowy figure blocked his path “(i)I’m sorry, sirs, but this is an...exclusive preview night. Guests on the list only.(i)”

The youngest Wayne opened his mouth to spout vitriol at the snobbish doorman, when Todd swooped in “Ah! How silly of me. My card.”

He slapped a small slip of stiff paper against the man’s lapel, smile far too wide. The man inspected it closely, then turned bloodless “(i)Please accept my most sincere apologies, sir! Do enjoy your evening!(i)”

He scuttled away like a wounded scarab. 

Damian squinted up at the halo around Todd’s silhouette “Just what kind of Hellish machinations are you embroiled in, Todd?”

“None o’ your beeswax.” the man winked, scuffed the boy’s head as he passed him and made a beeline for a pretty waitress with a platter of champagne, her hair a shining mass of mahogany curls “Oh, hey! Scuse me, ma’am, but those look free.”

“Tt.” nevermind him. Damian had rooms and ROOMS of art to explore. 

To him, art was purer than words. Words could be spoken with corruption or intent, but artists...they had to give up autonomy over their creations. They had no immediate control of what the viewer thought or felt, when they looked at it. 

What they saw or surmised about the artist, or about themselves. 

Even Mother couldn’t take art from him. As long as he had pen, paper, a sharpened point of a knife, slate anything. He could create. Spin his thoughts and feelings, even companions, into being. 

He had had to reproduce Caravvagio’s for an art fraud project the League undertook. He’d been five years old. He’d taken too long and been beaten, but he’d LOVED it. 

After decades of dull, lifeless husks, this man’s paintings had burst like overripe fruit into the world. The beautiful became grotesque, the grotesque, intimate and awful and wonderful. Damian drew himself to a halt before the enormous painting of David & Goliath, the lithe warrior brandishing the severed head, it’s neck gushing snakelike tendrils of blood.

Half-hynotised, the boy took up his pencil and paper and began to eagerly swipe strokes, pale grey to deep black. 

“(i)You have an exquisite eye.(i)”

The boy jumped out of his skin: startled, and ashamed of it. He quickly slapped his half-finished sketch to his chest. 

A tall, thin man stood beside him: dressed in a green velvet jacket, with neat, dark hair and a trimmed beard. The boy scowled, but grunted out a cordial “(i)Thanks.(i)”

The man, who had been politely admiring the artwork, turned to look at him: his eyes were black “(i)No, you misunderstand.(i)” he tapped below his own eye “(i)You have lovely eyes. Like theirs, no?(i)” 

He gestured to the twisted expressions that surrounded them “(i)Eyes that milk darkness.(i)”

The boy went very still. He felt strangely sick. 

The man continued, wistful “(i)He was a volatile spirit...Caravaggio. He killed more than once, did you know? These days, they would likely have sent him to an institution. Imagine. All that talent, wasted on...portents and pills.(i)”

Damian said nothing. He had that same sense he always had in Gotham, where predatory eyes loomed large. He willed his feet to move, but they wouldn’t: in the civilised chatter and swirl of disinterest around him, he felt lost. 

The man exhaled, leaning towards the portrait. His sweat smelled sweet and stale “(i)He died chasing through the marshes on the coast, following one of his portraits trapped in a ship at sea. How incredibly...profound.(i)” he gestured at the decapitation “(i)That’s his head, did you know? Goliath is a self portrait.(i)” 

He turned his head, eyes crinkling “(i)Who did you draw…?(i)”

“(i)Can I help you?(i)” 

Todd’s thunderous voice cut through the heady atmosphere like a mace, and the boy exhaled, releasing his death grip on his sketchbook. He felt winded. The man drew himself up, affecting a half-curious look as he took in the taller man’s calloused fingers on his shoulder. 

(So, Todd had been feigning ignorance of Italian, too?! The deceitful wretch). 

The stranger inclined his head graciously, and slipped beneath Todd’s hand without a word, fading somehow. Damian blew out a stuttering, angry breath, the spell broken. He was furious with himself. He- he had a suspicion of the man’s intentions, but….

Beside him, Todd’s entire body was shivering. It was almost unnoticeable, but it looked like the empty glass in his hand was about to shatter from his grip.

His dark eyes were wide and wild, fixed unmoving on the spot where the man vanished. 

“Todd?” throwing dignity to the wind, Damian tugged on the man’s sleeve, hard “Todd. Are you alright?”

The older man passed a palm over his chalk-white face, exhaling with a soft hiss “Fuckin’-” his vast shoulders caved like buttresses “F-fine. Fine, yeah, you? Did he-” 

Damian swiftly shook his head, no.

Todd did not seem assuaged by this, instead, growing more agitated “Shouldn’t’ve left you alone. SHIT.”

“I had the situation under control.” the boy insisted, frowning. If Todd continued like this, he would draw unwanted attention. Damian had no clue what to DO. How did one calm Jason Todd?! 

“He may not have had ulterior motives, Todd.” the boy proposed, flatly, although he found that a little unlikely. Nobody liked children where they didn’t belong, unless they… “He may have simply been...as Grayson would put it, ‘a creep.’”

It was clear neither of them were buying that. 

“Yeah, but Dickiebird grew up in a fucking FREAKSHOW carnival, with clowns n’bearded ladies for friends, so, y’know, not the best judge.” Todd spat, speaking far too quickly. 

Damian latched both of his hands around the man’s thick wrists and tugged down, grinding out lowly “Do you need some air?”

For some reason, that seemed to snap the man out of it. 

“No.” he exhaled, slowly: Damian could feel the beat of his blood against his own fingertips, stuttering like the wings of a trapped bird “Nope. M’fine. Just - tell me about this one, or something.”

He gestured wildly to a large portrait to their right. The boy tutted, and heaved the mass of the man over. 

“This is one of his lesser known works. Seven Acts of Mercy.” he wrinkled his nose, eying the twisted mass of figures. He found this one a little difficult to digest “Sette opere di Misericordia. It’s on loan from Naples, I think. It depicts the seven Catholic acts one is supposed to accomplish to be moral.”

“Mercy?” Todd made a huffing noise, a little colour returning to his cheeks “Looks more like torment, to me.”

“Yes, well. That was his style.” 

Damian watched the man for the long, awkward beats of silence stretching between them. Of course, he knew Todd’s volatile nature. Knew of his...resurrection. And also of his life, before - their Father. One of the gutter, of bruises and theft. It made sense that he would have...come into contact. With that sort of thing. 

The boy felt suddenly vehemently angry at EVERYTHING. 

“I kinda like it. In a weird way, it’s very...Gotham.” Todd was saying, his heart rate returning to normal between Damian’s fingers “Cardsharps is my favourite, though.”

The boy blinked. That piece wasn’t part of this collection “But that’s not here?”

“Nope.”

...Todd knew about art? “I didn’t take you for a patron of the arts, Todd.”

“There’s a lot of things you don’t know about me.” the man said, with a bitter, utterly mysterious smile.

‘Ain’t that the truth.’ a voice in the boy’s head that sounded suspiciously like Grayson touted. 

“Shut up.” Damian muttered to not-Grayson, before making a clumsy attempt at curious conversation “What’s your favourite work of art?”

“Icarus by Matisse.”

The boy pondered the dark, jagged black figure, the deep blue, the shot of red “...that’s. Somewhat appropriate.” 

This man the world purported to be his brother, and what did he know of him? Nothing, next to nothing. It occurred to Damian that he’d done with Todd precisely what he’d accused his Father, Grayson, and Timothy of doing with him: made assumptions. Woven a carcass of the man and refused to see beyond it.

I’m sorry, he wanted to say, ears burning. “I don’t know you.” is what came out, instead. 

Regaining himself, Todd winked and flicked the boy’s ear gently “We Dead Robins gotta keep an eye out for each other. Be the Big Damn Antiheroes. It’s a too-righteous world, out there.”

Damian scrubbed at his ear, frowning, but felt a warm blush engulf him nonetheless “I will give the matter thought.”

Of course, the moment was immediately ruined.

In the grand hall beside them, a blood-curdling scream rang out. Frantic footsteps. The vigilante’s exchanged glances before charging around the corner, four fists squeezed into tight, readied balls. 

A woman, staring up, her mouth an enormous scarlet O.

Broken glass, champagne creeping in plaintive bubbles across the marble floor. Following the woman’s gaze, Damian saw two dark figures grappling at the very top of the spiralling stairs. 

Suddenly, one figure overpowered the other - and the second went tumbling over the edge with a ragged howl. 

It took Damian a split-second to spy the rope around its neck.

“NOOSE!”

Apparently, Todd was the other split-second ahead of him. The man lunged forward at breakneck speed, snatching at the falling figure’s dangling legs and grappling his palms under the soles of its feet, trying desperately to hold it up. 

Damian’s eyes slid, immediately, to the retreating assailant. 

“Brat, don’t you FUCKING -DARE-!” 

He dared. He launched himself up the steps, three at a time, in pursuit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More on Jason's trauma: I choose to believe that Jason was never sexually abused himself, that doesn't strike me as part of his character. But as a street kid and the child of a very broken home, I think it extremely likely he's been exposed to victims, perpetrators, and the impact of it. Hence his understandable freakout. 
> 
> Liked it? Eager for more? Slide into my comments, homie!


	9. Jupiter, Neptune and Pluto

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay, my loves, I've been terribly unwell. 
> 
> Also work is ramping up recently, it being nearly Summer, so expect approx an update a week going forward! Likely Saturday/Sunday.
> 
> This chapter in Tim's POV.

It felt strange, not having Damian there anymore. 

Perhaps Tim had some malformed blend of stockholm syndrome. It wasn’t like he - MISSED the little brat. It’s just - they’d barely been apart for days on end, and he’d gotten very acclimatised to the boy’s presence. 

The way his ears stuck out just slightly beneath his thick mop of dead straight dark hair, and how they were tanning just a little faster than his permanently scrunched features. Or how he, accidentally or on purpose, seemed to always drag his miniature feet JUST enough to grind the rubber toes of his shoes down to a smooth shine. 

The teenager emitted a strangled noise and tugged at the stiff starch of his collar. He did NOT MISS Damian. 

...just…

He’d been the one to go and collect him from the manor, and somehow, leaving him felt - sacreligious. The kid had even looked a little startled and betrayed as the older boy had hurried over the hotel room threshold. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Jason: he’d seen the big lump around kids before, Damian included. 

Scarred children were pretty much Jason Todd’s kryptonite, Tim thought darkly. 

Speaking of the manor: the villa he was drawing up outside of (in a Gondola, of all the ridiculous things) somehow reminded him of the Wayne Residence. At first, he couldn’t quite put his finger on why. 

He stepped from the wobbling, dark wood of the boat to the jetty at the rear of the house, ignoring the steward’s proffered helping hand. His shirt was sticking to the light sheen of sweat pooling in the small of his back, where the cool night air didn’t seem to penetrate. His tongue felt brittle, his mouth dry. The hulking mass of the building towered over those immediately beside and across from it. 

It had an additional floor, Tim realised, frowning. He wondered how THAT had got past the council. 

It was the windows, he decided after a long moment. Their scrupulously neat rows winked like hooded eyes down at him, menacing. Their reflections in the crafted cut of the water below lingered like red sniper sights: creatures in the depths. 

There was something ancient and too-well-kept about the place. Like it was a model, or a crafted facade. 

You couldn’t see inside, but you got the distinct impression somebody was looking out, at you. 

He followed the immaculate steward inside, inhaling a waft of the heady, heavily scented flowers in the flower boxes at the edge of the lapping water. All various shades of purple and white, from cream to lavender to magenta. It seemed a - strange combination. 

“White, meaning purity. Purple, implying regality. On purpose, or no…?” the young man muttered to himself, drawing a startled glance from his guide. He countered the man’s unease with a quick flash of a smile.

...perhaps he ought to start keeping Damian around just so he didn’t sound like a gibbering LUNATIC half the time. Talking to himself - definitely a habit picked up from Bruce.

He squashed that thought like a fat, agitated fly. 

The foyer was enormous, the marble floors brightly shining, but it also seemed - strangely void. Of objects and of life. There pieces of art and statuettes and mirrors scattered everywhere, but no seats to speak of. No clocks quietly whiling away the hours. 

To the left, a door had been left ajar, and Tim could see and hear a subdued celebration of some sort going on: the swish of dark fabric and the clinking of glasses. 

Quiet laughter. 

Large, gleaming black bows had been draped across the doorways, looming large like spectres. They were expensive velvet, and gleamed like the freshly brushed flank of a prized racehorse. 

...a wake, the teenager realised, suppressing the urge to swallow. Not just a wake, but THE wake. Of the murdered man. 

In the centre of the foyer was raised staircase. At the top, several workmen were carefully removing an enormous portrait. Tim recognised it as that of Alberto Caprotti, his flapping jowls and scarlet nose, spidered with tiny ruptured veins, discreetly removed by the painter. 

An incredibly beautiful woman in a simple black mourning dress, hair swung up into a neat tail, was descending towards him “(i)Ah, mister Wayne? You’re expected, do come in.(i)”

The detective conducted a swift review of the archives of his brain: Carlotta Caprotti, the daughter. Taking a quick moment to inhale, he held out a hand “(i)I hope I’m not intruding at a painful time…?(i)”

...bit of a moot point there, Timbo, he thought sarcastically, in what sounded like Jason’s drawl. Disturbing. 

The girl (woman? It was hard to tell, God knows Tim was no expert) cocked her head, lips quirking, and eyed the portrait as it passed with an utterly missable flash of utter contempt “(i)You’re not intruding. Please, follow me. My brother is upstairs.(i)”

...huh. Something was rotten in this state, Tim surmised: he was quickly getting the measure of this. 

The decidedly not-sombre atmosphere  
The instant removal of all images of the deceased  
The clear ill will held by the daughter towards her dead Father 

This wasn’t a wake. It was a party. A celebration. These people were happy that Alberto Caprotti had been murdered, and barely containing the urge to let that be known. 

He felt the slow crawl of a shudder up his spine. 

Carlotta Caprotti knocked neatly at a small, discreet door at the top of the stairs, opening it at a quiet assent given in English. She pushed the door open, toppled Tim inside without another word, and closed the door behind them with an ominous ‘sna-click.’

Gabriel Caprotti looked a lot older than his sister, tall, with the same dark hair and eyes but with lines etched deep into his face “Ah, Mister Wayne! A pleasure to meet you.” he thrusts out a hand bedecked with not a few rings, the cool kiss of their metal unwelcome against Tim’s palms “It’s a shame we couldn’t meet under better circumstances.”

His English was impeccable. The detective smiled politely and held up a hand of refusal when the other man held up a decanter from the mini-bar “Yes, I’m very sorry for your loss, Mister Caprotti.”

Gabriel’s lips pursed, noncommittal “Hm. Yes. Well. Please, sit. I have a business portfolio ready for you to review…”

“We’ll get to that.” Tim replied, firmly, lacing his fingers as he sat “Can I be candid?”

Gabriel poured himself a generous helping of amber liquid into a diamond-cut glass “Please, do. I’d prefer it.”

“There seems to be a lot more relief than grief, in this house today.” Tim noted, evenly and without accusation, spreading his palms “Am I wrong?”

The other man swilled his drink and took a long draught, Adams’ apple bobbing gently “They told me you were observant. I’m impressed.” he gasped, gently, smacking his lips “No, you’re not mistaken. The situation is a little more - complicated, than at first it may seem.”

The detective eyed the criss-cross of faint white lines on the man’s knuckles: how his cuffs extended all the way to the bottom of his wrists “Your Father had somewhat of a reputation.” he commented.

Alberto Caprotti was a business mogul and, according to all the police reports Tim had hacked into - a serial abuser. 

All the reports had come to nothing, of course. 

“As does yours, it would seem.” Gabriel Caprotti shot back, his lips wrapping around the cold edge of the glass.

The young Wayne felt like he’d just been drop-kicked in the stomach: his head dunked in ice-cold water (both sensations he’d actually experienced). Somehow, he - the familiar cowl of the detective had slipped so easily over his head, he’d forgotten - the OTHER reason why he was here at all, in the first place. 

...he’d known the rumours of...Bruce’s behaviour had been whispered widely, but to crop up here? Now? That interview he’d given with the lurid aftermath of their confrontation displayed proudly on his jaw couldn’t have blown up this much - could it?

...this was bad. REALLY bad. Or good, he had no idea which. Either way, he could feel the plates of his control spiralling out from beneath him, coming apart. 

Gabriel took his stunned silence in stride, continuing “I’m sure you can relate. Living in the shadow of titanic men comes with it’s own unique set of pressures.”

Tim snatched the rags of his self control together, dragging his gaze up to meet his interrogatee “You’re aware your Father’s murder wasn’t an isolated incident.”

The other man stood, replacing his glass on the minibar with a soft ‘thunk,’ and filling it again, back turned; the crest ring on his little finger, overlarge and gaping, glinted “Indeed. I believe they’re calling them ‘gli angeli baciano,’ the Angel’s Kiss murders. A bit fanciful, if you ask me.”

Tim took a deep breath “...you feel your Father’s death was warranted?”

For some reason, he was desperate to hear that Gabriel was conflicted on this. Just - his own feelings, a maelstrom held back by the thick hooks of his ability to compartmentalise, were beginning to give way. 

Unfortunately, the other man disappointed him “Not only his death. His suffering, too. He was a cruel man. That was no secret. Cruelty and success are often bedmates.” he turned, leaning back against the minibar, gaze cold and hollow “He got exactly what he deserved.”

Tim’s heart felt like it was beating from inside his throat, throttling his skull “You think he was targeted...because of his behaviour?”

Gabriel shrugged “That’s what the press seem to be leaning towards, no? The only thread between all of these killings is that the victims are far from innocent. Even the young ones.” 

This had occurred to the young detective, also.

The man chuckled coldly “Even that Milanese star student turned out to be a serial rapist, no?”

Tim resisted the urge to drag a cool palm over his hot face: it wouldn’t do to show stress, here, and besides - wasn’t this supposed to be just a cordial business meeting?! “Do you think the killer should be stopped…?”

The question, more for himself than anyone, slipped from his lips unbidden. No stuffing it back inside, now. 

“I’m not a priest, mister Wayne. Nor a judge. Not my place to say.” Gabriel Caprotti set his toast aside, and walked back over to the set of papers on his desk “Shall we get down to business…?”

Tim cleared his throat, head numb “Yes. Let’s.”

He came away from the meeting with a successful contract in the works, and a sense of unease large enough to fill the Halls of Justice or whatever the League’s spaceship clubhouse was called, these days. His head was spinning - not, it was SPUN. Totally, totally spun. 

...did the Caprotti’s have something to do with their patriarch’s death? He had no idea. Not even a little. And no proof either way, besides. He needed more-

He stopped dead in his tracks in the foyer as the noise from the enormous television in the room to his right was blaring the evening news. 

“(i)Another one?! Oh, my.(i)” an eldery woman was gasping, clutching at her wrinkled neck. 

Drawn like a moth to halogen, Tim pushed the door a little ajar and squinted at the headline at the bottom of the screen: ‘Sensational! Public Execution at Art Gallery. Serial Killer Suspected’

A man raised his glass and toasted the headline, while another whispered conspiratorially “(i)So bold to do it in public, too! This angel has balls.(i)”

Bar the glare of the television, the stutter-sput of lit candles were the only light in the room. It gave the air a waxy, heavy feeling, with an acrid lace of smoke. 

“(i)Is that a CHILD on the roof?!(i)” the elderly woman exclaimed, breaking the spell over Tim with a violent jolt. 

There was only one child currently in Venice stupid and/or skilled enough to mount and traverse a fourteenth century rooftop. 

Sure enough, grainy, wobbly footage fed onto the gigantic HD frame displayed three figures leaping like agile rats from roof to roof, sliding around chimneys and leaping over television dishes in a ragtag pursuit. One of these figures was suspiciously small and bedecked in Gucci sneakers. 

...honestly? Tim seriously considered packing it all in that second and moving to Tibet to become a hermit, or something. Perhaps a software engineer for the KGB. 

“(i)Excuse me, what building is that(i)?!” he barked at the startled assembly, instead. 

The elderly woman opened and closed her mouth like a fish drowning on dry land, while one of her bemused companions automatically replied “(i)A church, I think in San Marco square.(i)”

Tim whirled on his heel with a squeak of rubber and not so much a courteous wave. 

It wasn’t far: his heart felt like it was filling his chest and his feet squeezed and blistered, as he half stumbled, half ran down the cobbled street outside the front of the villa. Behind him, the winking windows watched him go, resentful. 

...shit, he thought, yanking his tie free and tossing it. SHIT. His feet followed the meagre mind-map he’d constructed of the city streets over the past few days.

Art gallery. Of COURSE. The last venue had been a church, semi-public, but quiet. This was escalation. And of course, NATURALLY Damian and Jason would be there. That was just Tim’s God-damned luck, wasn’t it?! They couldn’t have just - gone to a homicide-free bowling alley, or something?!

He could hear the sirens now, wailing like banshees, the roars of a crowd like beasts baying at a matador. 

He burst into the blindingly-lit plaza just in time to see the first figure of three make a near-impossible jump between two buildings, from church spire to hotel balcony, and be gulped up into the dark unknown beyond. 

He opened his sore mouth to yell, but nothing came out.

He couldn’t see Damian’s expression, but he could see the soft kick of ceramic powder the boy’s toes disturbed as he skidded to a halt at the toppling edge of the church roof. The entire cacophony of skulls in the square seemed to inhale at once: the child seemed utterly unconcerned with them. 

The brat leapt: seemed to hang, stumpy limbs flailing at gossamer air for a moment. 

He didn’t make it. 

….but Jason did, his bulk launched with impressive stamina clean across the gap, slamming painfully into the brat’s wild splay of limbs and colliding with the hotel balcony’s metal railings. He tumbled both their bodies over the edge with a last, undulating swing. They disappeared from view. 

Quiet. 

Tim had to get in there. And when he did, SOMEBODY was going to die. He wasn’t sure exactly who or how, but it would involve PAIN, and SUFFERING, and financial reparations, and-!

“(i)Out of the way. Excuse me. EXCUSE ME!(i)” he heard his own voice bark with startling authority, shoving the crowds asunder and storming through the foyer of what was definitely not their hotel. 

...fuck. FUCK. He was going to kill BOTH of them. 

A startled policeman, cigarette dangling from his glistening lip, held up a forlorn hand blocking his way “(i)Sir, we cannot allow-(i)”

“(i)Who was asking?(i)” Tim rebuffed with cold vitriol, shoving helplessly at the man’s unmoving flank. He heard his own voice fruitlessly yell “JASON! Damian!”

The elevator pinged cheerily. 

“...it under control, Todd, you heathen!” came a familiar, rasping growl, quickly cut off by a pathetic bout of hacking. 

The figures emerged like a deformed chimera, the older leaning heavily and ridiculously on Damian’s bony shoulder “Oh sure, half pint! Actually, how about NO pint, cos that’s about as much sense as you’re displayin’!” Jason shoved a thick finger in the boy’s face “I shoulda just left you to splatter like a soggy crepe on the street, you little shi-”

“ENOUGH!!!” Tim roared, the very last thread of his patience snapping like a spider’s cough. 

The receptionist gaped and the policemen suddenly became very intrigued in looking elsewhere as the teen strode boldly past them, snatching both of his stray brother’s wrists, one twiglike, one trunkish “(i)Get me a taxi.(i)” 

One appeared as if summoned by the devil himself “Both of you. Get in. Now.”

The cop by the door suddenly awoke from his petrification, stuttering as the young detective shoved at Jason’s receding butt “(i)Sir, we must interview!(i)”

“(i)Later.(i)” Tim snapped, and slammed the taxi door shut. 

The muffled clamour receded very, very slowly. 

He fumed. It was unbearably hot, and the leather was sticking to his palms, clenched around the rim of the seat. For some reason, he’d gotten into the back, squashed in the middle between the other two. He could feel the push of Jason’s muscly bicep gently swell and contract as he breathed, unevenly, caught the whiff of nicotine and cheap cologne. 

Damian was scowling furiously at the floor, dusty and cowed. 

Somehow, it all just made him MADDER. 

“...you’re hurt.” he noted, after a very long silence, turning to glare accusingly at their eldest. 

Jason shrugged with a weak smile, fumbling with the roller to roll the window down: it was stuck fast “Eh. Bruised ego maybe.” Tim’s eyes narrowed and he hastily added “Fine, fine. Bruised RIBS, like overdone barbeque. No breaks, I swear! Jesus on a popsicle…”

More silence. 

“I…” Damian’s small, reluctant voice reverberated like a prayer in a church “I’m. Sorry.” he said, stiffly.

Tim inhaled slowly, tilted his head back, and pinched the bridge of his nose: counting back from twenty, as Kon had once encouraged him to. Come to think of it, the Titans (the old guard - or was it middleish guard…?) had been some of the few to ever really see him lose his temper. Jason, perhaps, had once or twice.

Not Damian. He winced, hating how that thought alone punctuated his ire like a soggy balloon. The brat didn’t SEEM afraid, but…

Hell, he still didn’t know him well ENOUGH. 

Damian licked his lips, frowning slowly “I said-”

Tim exhaled in a slow, soft stutter, and sank his fingers gently into the brat’s hair, ruffling firmly, like he was wrangling an animal “Not now, kid. Please. Just. Give me a moment.”

It seemed to break the tension, just a little.

They traipsed, worn and strung out like three parallel lines, taut and ready to snap, back into their sanctuary at the hotel. 

Damian scuttled to the TV stand without a word, withdrawing the first aid kit and gauze from Jason’s duffle. With rare tact, Jason silently stripped his jacket and shirt off and sat on the edge of Tim’s bed, surrendering himself to their youngest’s careful ministrations. Tim could hear them sniping and murmuring softly, and suddenly felt fiercely jealous of their easy conspiracy. 

Tim washed his face in cold water in the bathroom sink and guzzled three pints of bottled water from the mini fridge in a row. It centred him. 

He gasped, softly, leant against the desk and levelled a pinning gaze on the defendants sat neatly next to one another on the bed, alert like men at parade rest “One of you - I don’t particularly care which, right now - is going to explain.” he squeezed and released the empty plastic bottle in his hand, menacing “Quickly and efficiently.”

“Damian and me-” Jason immediately blurted, but said brat interrupted rudely “Damian and -I-.”

Their oldest rounded on the kid “Fine, you fucking tell-” 

WUNCH. The plastic in Tim’s clenched fist buckled further. The sound was met by twin winces. 

Damian picked up the recantation “Todd and -I- attended the exhibition of Caravaggio’s work at the art gallery tonight. While there, we…” he trailed off, gaze suddenly turning strangely hollow “...I.”

Tim frowned, the ire melting from him, fast. Something was wrong. Like, really, actually wrong. Fuck. He should’ve - just. Should’ve, could’ve. Didn’t. 

“There was a creeper.” Jason interjected smartly, folding his bearlike arms and then wincing as it aggravated his wrapped ribcage. 

The teen blinked “A- a what?”

Jason jerked his chin down at Damian’s bowed head “A creeper. Creeped on the kid.”

...oh. OH. No wonder both of them looked, upon closer inspection, like somebody died, came back, and tore a chunk out of their mortality. 

“Holy-” Tim breathed, swallowing the urge to dash across the space between them - but he didn’t want to freak the brat out more than he already clearly was “Damian? Are you alright?”

“I am unharmed.” their youngest returned, robotically. 

Jason rolled his eyes and gave him a gentle shove, barely enough to rock him from his toes “You’re freaked to fuck, batling.”

“That is about the summation of events, yes.” Damian muttered, dryly, before glowering up at the man “You were more freaked to fuck than I!”

“...language.” the young detective interjected, fruitlessly: his head was beginning to hurt, again “I’m guessing there’s more?”

He resolved to speak to them both about this, later. Christ. How did Dick DO this…? Did he keep a running checklist of Awkward Heart to Hearts, time tbc, place tbc, crying and punching the wall optional…?

“...when the murderer struck again.” Damian was saying, chest puffed up as if reporting back from a skirmish “He hung the victim from the sixth stairwell, and while Todd engaged in a pointless game of catch the corpse-”

“He was still ALIVE, ya bum!” Jason snapped, cheeks scarlet “And let it be noted that YOU scarpered like a rat with its butt on fire when I specifically told you NOT to!”

Damian had the decency to look at least a little guilty at that. Tim sighed. Yet ANOTHER conversation to save for later. 

“Did he survive?” he enquired, instead.

Jason’s usually smooth features wrinkled with a tumult of emotions for a moment, before settling into their practiced feigned ease “Nope. Neck snapped. Good fucking riddance.”

Sensing more, Tim coaxed with a gentleness that alarmed even himself “Because?”

Their eldest’s knuckles twitched “He was the creeper. From...before.”

Damian lifted a hesitant hand, as if intending to place it on Jason’s knee. Instead, it hung, awkwardly suspended between them in mid-air, undecided. 

“That makes sense.” the young detective said, after a long moment “I’ve discerned motive. It seems that every victim of the killer so far has been, convicted or otherwise, some form of-” he swallowed “Abuser. Physical, emotional...or.”

He trailed off. Jason was scowling at the muted television behind Tim’s head. 

“I think we got bigger problems, Timberella.” he said, eyes gaunt, jabbing a thick thumb at the screen. 

Tim’s head snapped around so fast he felt the muscles in his neck crack: displayed in bright neon colours at the bottom of the screen was the bold headline: ‘(i)The Angel’s Kiss Strikes in Two Cities! Body found in Fontana di Trevi, Rome.(i)’

“There’s more than one killer.” the detective muttered, numbly, half to himself despite his audience. 

“Well, shit.” Damian commented, succinctly. 

Tim let him have that one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The plot thickens! And Tim's hair thinnens. 
> 
> Next chapter, my first crack at Jason POV ;) excited? Worried? Comment!

**Author's Note:**

> Cash me on Tumblr, howbow dah: @ geishacomb.tumblr.com/


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